Fallen
by jaroberts
Summary: AU. Have you ever given thought to what it means to have a normal life? Have you ever thought how a tragedy to your family could change everything? Dean Winchester never did. He's just a normal guy in a small southern town. Until the accident. But when one door closes, another one opens. Dean was ready to give up, but Fate had other plans for him, and love always finds its way.
1. Chapter 1

***Prologue***

 _Set me as a seal upon thine heart, as a seal upon thine arm: for love is strong as death; jealousy is cruel as the grave: the coals thereof are coals of fire, which hath a most vehement flame._

-Song of Solomon

I never gave much thought to how tragedies could truly change a person. Change their path in life. Pain was the teacher for the human race. Human pain sliced and carved at our souls, leaving scars. But pain was natural. The scars healed. It came natural to humanity. We adapted and changed. Transformed and evolved from our pain. If there was no pain, no suffering, there could never be passion, love. And to live without love was not really living. When you found what you couldn't live without, you had to fight. Fight through the pain. Embrace it even. Some might have said strength came with winning your battles. Those who believed that were wrong. Strength came from hope, and the will to fight. When you gave up hope, you were truly dead.

 _Sometime in the near future…_

A steady haze of greying fog swirled around and through the copse of trees, mist and damp earthy smells of rot turning the air musty and rancid with decay, a long-neglected spot in acres of unused land. The uninhabited church in the woods was the perfect place to perform the bonding. There were no surrounding houses or buildings for at least a thirty mile radius. It was a holy place, able to keep out unwanted, evil beings. All churches were, still standing or not, on hallowed ground, it seemed like a flawless plan. It just so happened, that it was deserted. Hopefully no one would be there to interrupt their moonlight rendezvous.

Which was a plus.

"Are you ready?" ground out a gravelly voice, the angel's blue eyes staring attentively, shining in the dark as he waited a response from his companion. The man in front of him nodded warily, his green eyes wide in the dark of the room, visibly swallowing over the lump in his throat as he turned his back to those blue eyes, that gaze more than human, and faced the front of the church.

"Yes," the green-eyed man whispered roughly. He was nervous, had no idea what to expect, but he had no other choice. After everything had been through, suffered, learned, he _owed_ it to them, to his brother. He was _choosing_ this, to _live_ , for _them_. They would have wanted him to.

He removed his shirt to reveal the toned expanse of his back to the intensity blazing from the angel's blue eyes. He heard it, could almost feel the angel shiver in anticipation, in such close proximity to him. It was almost here, they could _feel_ it, the anticipation of becoming.

He felt himself shiver too, scared, but there was no breeze on his chilled skin, only the adrenaline pulsing through his body and around him. "Just don't screw it up. I don't want to end up a drooling mess," green eyes muttered shakily on a quivering laugh.

He felt a large, soft yet gentle hand enclose around his shoulder. "I wouldn't dream of it," the angel soothed gently, his tone smooth and his blue eyes gentle and assuring to his friend, sending tendrils of warmth through his hands to calm his charge's nerves, his trembling form slowly relaxing.

Green eyes felt a stubborn smile curve at the edge of his lips, somehow at ease with this man in the dark, even with the blood pounding below his fevered skin. "I know. I trust you," he whispered, closing his eyes.

The blue-eyed angel smiled innocently and green eyes could almost hear his friend's lips stretch in the darkness. That was all he needed. The angel came closer and, very gingerly, placed his warm hands on his back. He began to move his hands over his friend gently, along his shoulders, caressing down his sides to his flanks to his hips, resting there for a moment to soothe his soaring nerves.

Green eyes snapped open. He was beginning to think there was something wrong in the hesitation. "Is that it?" he asked as he twiddled his fingers fretfully.

No sooner than he said it, he was seeing white.

A hand clamped tight, bruising in its grip, to his shoulder. The shirtless man at the altar went from standing firm to struggling to keep his legs from buckling underneath him, limbs wobbling while his friend moved to the side of him, pressing his hand into his shoulder. Green eyes could feel the hand there blaze with blistering heat, melting into his skin, burning right to the root of him, beneath flesh and to the more intangible part of him. He could feel the heat enclosing around him. He could see the light around him through his closed lids, turning them red-tinted, squinting his eyes from the intensity.

His screams were muffled as he gritted his teeth, a groaning whimper escaping his throat, just in case there was anyone in the vicinity, and to keep himself from screaming like a girl in an axe murder movie. White-hot knives carved into him. He was amazed at himself that he could even process a thought. This is what he imagined dying felt like, the agony of it stretching on limitless, suspended in time. The pain was paramount, but it was fading and a growing sense of radiance was bathing him in comfort, safety.

The angel was attempting to lessen the trauma, he thought belatedly. It helped, but only in the poignant sense, the mental anesthesia diluted by the sheer weight of his loneliness.

It was an apology. He felt the angel's sorrow even as he poured his grace, his righteous, burning touch into his skin, and deeper, to the roots of him. The angel was trying to lessen his suffering, and even through the agony of it all, it was too much, the depth of feeling, of the love his blue-eyed friend was pouring into him.

The _light_. The _peace_.

It hurt… _everywhere_. Everywhere burned and molded to the heat pressing into and past the barrier between flesh and spirit. He felt like he was being impaled by some blunt white-hot instrument. Soothing and burning at the same time, he felt it in every part of him, a glowing fire surrounding him, cocooning him in safety, devotion, _love_. It brought tears to his eyes, a throbbing pound in his chest as he heard it.

 _It will be alright. I've got you. You're safe_ , the words whispered in his mind, like his friend's voice was right next to him, was muttered in his ear, and the image of soulful blue eyes staring at him adoringly, soothing him. The light began to bleed through his eyelids, and frightfully he suspected if he opened them, his eyes would melt or be burnt out of his skull.

But as soon as the overwhelming pain had come, it was ripped away like wrenching out a sword in a wound, and with it, the light died down. His shoulder was throbbing from the direct impact of celestial heat and the unending devotion. What had seemed like an eternity of scalding fire was a mere two seconds of severe sunburn, scorching him to his very soul, leaving him dried and wringed out, exhausted.

Catching his breath, he fell forward, catching himself before he fell to the floor, on his hands and knees desperately heaving for breath. And the angel stood beside him, ran his hands over his charge soothingly, rubbing deep circles into his fevered skin. He was still reeling from the scorching heat, clutching at the fibers of the dark burgundy carpet as it receded to a dull ache in his arm.

Green eyes panted erratically, his breath heaving in staccato gasps. "Son of a bitch," he groaned, feeling exhausted and sapped of any kind of feeling, emotionally or physically. "Wow, that was about as fun as getting kicked in the jewels," he panted, expelling a shaky laugh, trying to regain his breath, raising himself up to sit back on his haunches, resting his hands wearily on his thighs.

The angel simply stared down at the floor next to him wordlessly, his eyes downcast beneath his thick lashes, dark hair a mess atop his head, remorseful as he glanced out of the corner of his eyes, fearful of the reaction he would get from his friend, suddenly afraid to speak. The absolute agony in those green eyes was enough to make him feel an unforgivable shame in his heart. He _never_ wanted to cause his charge this kind of pain, _ever_.

But this was where it got weird. Green eyes _felt_ it.

 _He felt the angel_.

He ran his fingers through his tousled hair, wiping the back of his hand across his forehead to dispel some of the salty sweat there. He turned to look at his friend, his heart thudding as he took in the angel's downtrodden features. His friend had never been more transparent before this moment.

He was alright now, and excluding the preceding pain, nothing ventured, nothing gained. He felt _clean_ , as if he was a whole new person, like he was given a clean slate, reborn.

The angel had told him something like this might happen, as it had never even been _attempted_ before. There was no sense in his friend beating himself up over it. He had an advance warning, been told that this had been coming, that it would be excruciating. That was good enough for him.

Not so much in words as with the look in his hooded, sad blue eyes, the last thing the angel had wanted was to cause his charge anymore pain.

Looking at those ashamed blue eyes made him feel a wave of compassion for the angel, for the concern for _him_.

And it was breaking his heart.

Now he knew _exactly_ how deep the regret ran through those blue eyes. It felt like slowly bleeding out from a wound to the stomach, _draining_.

Green eyes very slowly brought his left hand up and very gingerly prodded at the raised tender skin on the mound of his right shoulder. His fingers ghosted over the angry welts there. It was like that of an inflamed tattoo, one that never quite healed properly, raised and irritated. He could distinguish little intricate symbols and lines there, carving themselves into his skin from the heat, around the unmistakable shape of a hand, scorched into his skin, a permanent claim. There was no pain or itchiness, just a dull ache, a warm stinging sensation. It was like fire, _life_ , a new kind of life was imprinted in him, resonating with the angel's essence.

It was connection, in its purest form.

The angel's gravelly whispering voice, full of deep regret and sorrow, broke him out of his thoughts. "I'm sorry." The resignation there caused the elevated mark on his arm to throb. Not with soreness. Not even a raw prickle. Feelings flashed through him. There were emotions there, sentiments that were not his own, and one unambiguous feeling he was biblically familiar with. It was a feeling he had become intimately acquainted with every day for months now, _years_ even.

There was undeniable, unnecessary _guilt_ , coursing through him, not his own.

Guilt for leaving him.

Green eyes rubbed the back of his neck, confused why it felt so awkward to be on the other side of this situation, the _comforter_ , not the comforted. It was something he was not sure he would be any good at. "Don't worry about it. You have nothing to say sorry for. You warned me and I agreed. Don't you know by now that you can't beat stubborn?" he smirked jokingly, a weak lopsided smile curling his lips.

Very slowly, almost ashamed, the angel looked up and green eyes' breath caught in his throat. There was that kicked puppy look again his those blue eyes. The angel's boundaries were down and he couldn't only _see_ his sorrow. He _felt_ him now.

He quickly shuffled over to pull his blue-eyed friend into a full embrace. The angel rested his head on his charge's shoulder, but his hands remained stiff and at his side, stubbornly tense, and for a moment, the green-eyed man thought the angel didn't know how to hug properly. Maybe the angel had never _been_ hugged before.

And shockingly, he realized that it was true. His kind were rarely, _if ever_ , afforded the occasion. And with the shock he realized this was the most lonely being he had ever met. His chest ached with the knowledge, overwhelmed with compassion, determined to right the situation.

He didn't get to dwell on those depressing thoughts for long. A hand came up to his right shoulder, claiming its rightful place, and then they were both where they belonged, all thought was thrown away. His shoulder began to throb and pulse with a rush of electricity and their surroundings all melted away.

He could feel _everything_. Everything the angel was feeling as well as himself. There was no distinction, like they were one being, two separate entities intertwined. The only feeling he could single out from himself was the _guilt_. It forced its way through him and almost knocked him off balance, seeking penance in his arms, _forgiveness_. It was like looking into like, a mirror of what he had seen in himself every day. And it saddened him. But there was also something else there.

There was devotion, stubborn protectiveness in a _big_ way. There was painful relief. And a staggering amount of _affection_ , awe and loyalty emanating from the angel. It brought tears to his eyes, that sheer amount of feeling. He had never felt more alive in his life, connected on such a basic level to anything else in his life. It was nice. _Hell_ , it was… there were no words for it. It was _everything_.

They quivered together in each other's arms, the human and his angel, the angel and his charge. An electric current of adrenaline forced its way in and out and through them both, sweat developing all over their bodies, moving flush together, not a space left between their bodies or souls. They were one, and neither one of them had ever felt this way before. That sense of _rightness,_ that they never totally belonged to anything before as much as right at that moment, was staggering.

Sated and pleasantly numb, the man pulled away. Leaving their cocoon of safety and warmth was sweet agony, a throbbing emptiness, quivering, desperately aching for them both to be one again, but he desperately wanted to see the angel's face. To see the passion and the intensity in his blue eyes for what it was.

His green eyes were blown wide, mouth hanging open, his breaths leaving him in ragged panting. "Wow! That was…" he slurred, still heaving for breath, gulping for air and utterly at a loss for words, this feeling like no other, quenching a desperate thirst, feeling like he had finally taken a drink of water after being stranded in the desert for years.

The angel's expression was in awe, his blue eyes glazed over, and whirling with unshed moisture. "Yes. It was," he gushed low and gruff with pleasure, a small smile curling his lips. They both felt it, even if the words could never seem to leave their lips. And by his sweating brow and his heaving chest, panting for breath, and his pupils dilated with desire and lust, it was confirmation it was just as intense for the angel as it was for the man, that the angel was just as much affected by it.

The man chuckled breathily. "I had no idea it would feel this good," he smiled, awed. His expression morphed instantly into a haughty leer. "So does that mean you're not a virgin anymore?" he blurted out, letting out a devious chuckle.

The angel narrowed his eyes at him and tilted his head in part confusion, part annoyance. "Fornication is not a mental thing, unless I am mistaken. My virtue is still intact," he deadpanned, his voice stoic and raspy.

The man grinned back at him, a smug leer. "Well whatever it was… ninety-five percent… I would give up sex indefinitely."

Those blue eyes narrowed to slits. "I sincerely doubt that," his sarcasm threw blunt daggers at him, though there was no real heat in the angel's words, only affection.

Greens eyes suddenly became blank as he puckered his lips and puffed out his cheeks in contemplation. "Okay you're right," he conceded flatly, shrugging his lips and shoulders. "Just five percent," he deadpanned.

Like the unpredictable mood of a person suffering from bipolar disorder, the angel's mood changed from happy to groveling at his feet as his blue eyes changed, pained, full of deep sorrow.

The angel shook his head in horror, disbelief at what he had had to do. "I never wanted you to go through that kind of pain. Not after everything that has happened to you," he confessed brokenly, remorsefully, dwelling on something that was already done. _Necessary_. "And I feel like I forced you into this. You don't deserve it." The note of finality in the angel's voice set off alarm bells in his head.

It sounded suspiciously like a goodbye.

It absolutely pulled at his heart strings, the way the angel blamed himself. He would rather not live in the past. There was nothing they could do about it. What happened was done. There was no use being apologetic for something that didn't come close to needing forgiveness. He could not even begin to have regret for this. His angel saved him, saved his _soul_ , and that had to count for something, right?

"Hey," he whispered gently, not wanting to spook his friend, schooling his voice and face into something resembling peace, cupping a hand around the curve of the angel's stubbled cheek, gently coaxing those blue eyes to look at him. "I chose this. _You_." He shrugged, smiling gently. "Not complaining over here." He sighed, and it felt like he would be doing that a lot lately. He finally felt like he was free, _home_ , after all these years. "It was worth it. And it means it's over right?"

The angel shook his head stubbornly, not able to accept his charge's forgiveness for what it was, his words contradicting his hopeful look. "Yes, but I can't begin to describe how sorr-" but his charge silenced him with a palm raised and the other hand situated on his hip, pulling the angel into another embrace.

They stood in silence for a moment, the angel's dark head of hair wearily coming to rest against his chin, his hand finding his mark on his charge's shoulder, his other arm winding tightly around his back to rest at his waist, clutching at him hard, the angel desperately clinging to him as if this was going to be suddenly taken from him, the all-consuming _need_ between them. They simply stood there without moving or saying anything, embracing so hard one might have thought they were afraid of being torn apart, away from each other forever, like they were never meant to have this.

He drew back after a few moments, his expression warm as he held the angel at arms' length. He focused on his bright blue eyes and brought his hand up to wipe away the few stubborn tears there with a thumb. "Hey… I'm fine," he admitted and then paused to think on it for a second. "Well, I'm not _fine,_ fine. But I will be. _We_ will be. I prom-" he began, but a booming flash of blinding light and a rushing wind shook the church, cutting his words short, ripping them from each other's arms and sending them crashing back.

They managed to complete the ritual successfully. But this gargantuan sucking abyss in the floor in front of the altar, they didn't see coming. Once the gate opened, the sonic wave that emanated from it sent the man flying through the air as if a wrecking ball knocked into his middle. He found himself wrenched from his angel, from that spot, flying through the air over the dilapidated pews like a ragdoll. He landed with a sickening, dull crunch at the base of one of the towering white support columns at the back of the church, sliding to the ground, grunting and groaning as his vision swam in and out of focus.

He struggled to sit up against the white plane of the column, but his body had other ideas at the moment. Searing, mind-numbing pain shot through his entire body. Adrenaline kicking in, it became a constant throbbing pulse in his muscles and bones and he could hear the blood rushing and pumping in his head until he felt like his head would explode. Dizzy with nausea, he gritted his teeth as he attempted to get to his feet, but to no avail. It was no use. His body wouldn't do what he wanted, feeling like he had been drugged, possibly concussed. His vision came in and out of focus as the howling winds tossed around like a tornado set loose. All he could see, as the blackness overtook him, was his friend standing up determined, grabbing aggressively at a blurry dark figure and the world turned on its side and everything faded into nothing.

When he woke up to silence, he did not have a good feeling. It was too quiet. A hollow void sunk his chest inwards. It felt as if something was ripped out of him while he was out. But it was not a physical hurt. There was nothing _there_. There was nothing but an unfilled void, a dark pit-less _hole_. There was no hurt, just… _nothing_. And he was almost positive that he might have internal bleeding. All which paled in comparison to the awful sensations that were growing steadily stronger in his heart.

With broken limbs, he dragged himself towards where the angel should still have been standing, trying to glean even the faintest sense of his presence. But he was not _there_ anymore. He couldn't pick up even an ounce of the angel's presence, as he had been able to, just what felt like moments ago. The tingle in the air as the angel arrived to greet him every single time before this night, was gone. All he had left was a barren loneliness inside him.

 _Nothing_.

A devastating thought hit him hard in the chest, and he felt all the air leave his lungs. His angel was gone, for _good_ , to a place he couldn't follow, and his thoughts horrified him, the place they were taking him. That maybe his friend had been taken, to the very place his friend had desperately fought so hard to save him from. And there was _nothing_ he could do about it.

The grief came crashing into him like a monstrous tsunami, washing him onto the jagged rocks along the shore and tearing his insides out on their sharp edges. He dragged himself to the altar, fingers burning as they used what little strength they had left to drag him forward, ignoring his aches, and he broke down as his eyes began to burn hot.

As he sat there, _broken_ , in mind and body, he sat there at the altar of the old church, as stationary as a statue. His eyes were shut tight to keep the tears from running as he gave in to the only thing he had left.

Prayer.

The tears flowed freely, a reminder of what he had lost. It was all he had left of him, the _memory_. He did not even _see_ what happened to his angel, and he didn't need to. But it did not take a brain surgeon to know something was not _right_ here. When the bond was complete, he had a touch that was only the angel's still lingering in him, even after they weren't connected anymore. He could feel him inside him, a comforting presence offering warmth and solace. He would never be alone, even if his angel was not there with him. He had left a huge imprint on his soul. And now that he had gone, it was as if someone had peeled the skin off his body.

"Please…." he sputtered with a broken faith, pleading with the angels on the cracked and water-damaged ceiling, as if a messenger of God, or _something_ , was actually listening to him. He had no idea what he was trying to say. It hurt too much to form words. He knew what he wanted. He wanted his angel. He _needed_ him. He could not survive without him, he was sure of that now.

He could not go on a single moment more like this. He had been hooked up to life support since the angel came into his life. He was his anchor to life. But he was not here anymore. He had to fight the pain on his own, but he couldn't breathe on his own yet.

There was nothing left to fight for. His family was gone, all of them. He was alone, he felt abandoned, like a puppy standing in an alley as the rain pounded down around him, unwanted and alone. He bowed his head to let his chin rest on his chest, the burden to hold his head up too much.

Everything should have gone to plan. But no one ever got exactly what they wanted in the end. It was too much to hope, the cynically realistic part of him giving up before he really had the chance to think that he could have a life, that he could be happy. That was his curse, he knew that now. It was the curse that all humanity had to suffer since the Exile from Eden.

The _loneliness_.

That sobering truth was nothing compared to this, his lover plummeting into a dark, sucking void of fire and brimstone, an angel falling from grace.


	2. Chapter 2

***Chapter One - Highway to Hell***

Bright cerulean light, intense as the sun, bore into him and around him, he was held in grace, safety and warmth. Nothing really had form here. Wrapped in a cocoon of light, he flew through the whitest clouds. The wind blew over his face and what could only be described as velvet black wings encased either side of him, no feathers or mass to speak of, only great expanses of light and shadow shimmering through the sky, stretching the transparent, strong limbs out majestically, holding him safely, never allowing him to fall.

Then everything turned dark and the warmth subsided.

Dreams were pathways to other worlds, maybe even a past memory. In dreams, sometimes no matter how hard you tried to remember what you saw, experienced, the memory could never be recovered again. He had had this dream since he was very, very little. It was always the same, never straying or changing. No matter how he tried to push forward in the dream, it always ended the same. Nothing. He hit a dead end, waking up and feeling frustrated, a niggling sense of unfinished business in him, a ghost continuing to haunt him. He forgot with the rousing of a new day, the stresses of life. He was consciously unaware of what his dream truly meant, what it could possibly mean someday.

But that would all change soon. Nothing ever stayed gone for long. Everything had a habit of coming back to you in the end, when you least expected it. But at the end of the day, nothing ever really ended.

And this was where the story began…

* * *

… _Mid-Fall, Four Years Earlier…_

Grace County was a small rural town in southeastern Virginia, a run-of-the-mill, podunk town, so small and out of the way that not even those who had a map would be able to find it. You had to just drive and drive and drive and get lost to find it, and even then you never knew where it was, and Dean liked it that way, the quiet, secluded life.

He was woken from his dream, forgotten, his nap disturbed by a loud crash of thunder late that Saturday afternoon. He ran his hands through his tousled bed-head and blinked his eyes open, turning drowsily to look out his window. It was a dreary, rainy day in late October. A Virginian summer, though it was _technically_ autumn, hot and humid, in the upper nineties, the thick, cloying humidity so muggy you could drown in it. It was in the middle of hurricane season now, the winds blowing ferociously, tossing plastic lawn furniture about carelessly, and the grey storm clouds through the window, the thunder booming, cast a gloomy mood over his bedroom. But Dean loved thunderstorms, the sounds of nature relaxed him.

Today felt like a lazy day. This was the _read-a book-all-day_ kind of weather, he thought to himself. Dean had never really been much of a big reader. He lived too much in his head to really concentrate on reading someone else's thoughts. He was the type that always had to keep his hands busy. He often thought about taking up smoking, to give his hands something to do when he was idle with too much time on his hands, but his mother would have a conniption if she found out.

Damn, he really wanted to spend the whole weekend in bed.

He heard a distant clatter that could only be his mom bustling around the kitchen. He smiled to himself. It seemed he got the restlessness honest, but his mom loved to read, one thing they unfortunately differed in. She had a house overflowing with books, but neither the time to sit or relax with her busy schedule, working as a paralegal for the local tax lawyer, six days a week. Nor did she have a designated place for her numerous paperbacks but in the dozens of boxes littering the attic and the garage, much to his dad's consternation.

Dean wanted to surprise her for her birthday and just _imagining_ the warm smile he would get from her when he would present the finished product was definitely worth the long arduous hours spent sanding and carving and nailing stubborn oak into place.

Dean sat up in bed, wiping the sleep from his eyes and sighed in resignation. He wanted to lie back down and sleep the rest of the day away, but didn't want to feel like he was some kind of bum, and he felt like there were things that needed to be done. It would bug him the rest of the day if he didn't get up now anyway.

He dragged himself out of bed and shuffled slowly over to his dresser at the foot of the bed and pulled on a pair of holed blue jeans. He was already wearing a light gray t-shirt, and though he had slept in it, it didn't have a smell and he just didn't feel like changing. It was a little too small for him now, considering how his muscles stood out proudly in all the right places.

Opening his closet, he got lost in contemplation for a moment.

What the hell.

He threw a wrinkled faded-green, buttoned shirt over his t-shirt. Judging by the weather they were having, it could be slightly chilly. Whenever the heavens spewed out rain, the thick humidity blanketing the sky was obliterated, leaving nothing behind except cool, fresh air.

And possibly pollution.

Dean grew up in a white two story house in an extremely small town in the backwoods of Virginia. There was an ancient, huge oak tree in the front yard that he used to climb when he was little. A veranda covered the whole front of the house, looking out to the beach. There was a thick blanket of trees surrounding the backyard and sides of the property.

His family all seemed to like it here, but Dean had always felt out of place. He _liked_ the quiet simplicity of small-town life, but it was just a place. He was just there because his family was and he wasn't sure he would ever have a place he could call his own. They were just places after all. What was the point unless you had family around?

The town was now under a constant blanket of rainy, dark grey cloud cover, giving it that extra depressing vibe. It was normally hot for the better part of the year. And humid, never forget humid. Dean could tolerate the heat, but he didn't like when he could taste it or practically drown in it. For the longest time, he kept telling himself over and over that when he was old enough and mature enough to be on his own, he wanted to move somewhere like the desert, where it was hot and dry, like Arizona. He couldn't stand feeling like he had swamp ass, like all his clothes were molded to him from the constant sweating.

But he still wanted grass. He loved to mow the lawn.

 _Go figure_.

He walked out into the hall and down the stairs, only to roll his eyes as he heard a growling shriek of anger. A screaming match again. _Must be Tuesday_ , he thought somberly.

His mother was, as he expected, patiently waiting to the side for her time as the implied mediator to step in when things got too heated. It was kind of expected at that point. It wasn't rare in their house for tensions to rise. They all had the Irish temper. These blowouts were usually between his dad and his little brother, occasionally Dean and his mom were involved, as no one in this house was a saint, but it was mostly the two of them, more times than they could count on two hands. Sammy was always stubbornly defiant, rebelling against their father's judgments or his plans in general, usually butting their stubborn-ass heads over absolutely nothing. From the outside perspective, Dean thought that they didn't like each other very much.

He could've been mistaken.

They were pretty much the same person.

They liked what they liked and nothing else. You would think that two people who thought alike would agree on everything and get along. But no, their likes were as different as heads and tails, and the only way they were evenly matched was how stubborn they both were. Anyone who had ever witnessed a fight between the two of them, it was like they were talking to themselves in the mirror.

They were just staring into a mirror with a _slight_ age difference, and seriously clashing personalities.

Danger was ahead by the look of the scowl on their dad's face, the both of them waving their hands wildly in front of each other. And while Dean knew it would not get physical, it never had in the past, no matter how heated the arguments became he did not want to deal with this reoccurring drama.

It was exhausting and ridiculous.

So this argument was par for the course it seemed.

Sam growled viciously. "I am not joining the football team dad! All the guys are stuck up each other's asses and are a bunch of two-faced douchebags. They think they can do anything they want. They act like their shit don't stink and I refuse to be around those phonies," Sam barked with vicious intent as he jerked his head. "And they all go around bragging and lying about how they screw every girl in the school. Neanderthals all of them," he spouted off, "is that really the kind of people you want me to associate with?" he finished rhetorically, smirking facetiously, though Dean could see it, his brother's nerves on the surface, the next strike on the tip of his tongue. Sammy could be a bitch when he wanted to.

It had been a sore spot for their dad for a while now. John Winchester had been the Captain of the football team, and an ex-Marine to boot. A tough guy at heart. Sam was very athletic, but he preferred his studies.

It didn't exactly improve their father's mood, or his furious expression. That scowl could set things on fire. Besides, Dean was the only one who could be cute and get a rise out of someone.

 _Especially their dad_.

John sighed impatiently, like he had been through this with his son one too many times. Because he _had_. "You want to go to college you need a scholarship because I can't shit thousands of dollars out, _Samuel Winchester_ ," his dad snapped, ignoring the last part of his son's argument, annunciating his name with intended vehemence. His veins were popping out of his temples, his neck was speaking its own language, and his dark eyes were bulging a little, and his face was turning an ugly shade of scarlet. Dean had seen his dad so angry that he would never think of getting on his bad side.

The one his obnoxious brother was currently nudging hard against.

They had had a yard sale one year and this major douchebag had shown up drunk and loud, surprise, _surprise,_ shouting obscenities at his father _._ John had clearly stated that the Impala was not for sale.

Anyone who knew anything about yard sales knew a man's garage was off limits. Clearly this guy wasn't standing in line when they handed out smarts.

That guy was not taking no for an answer. Some people never knew when to leave well enough alone.

That asshole proceeded to follow John around, talking his ear off. Even Dean was annoyed with the balls of some people. He wanted to shiv this guy with a butter knife, really Grey Poupon his ass.

When you went to a garage sale and the garage door was shut, and everything for sale was _clearly_ marked on the front lawn, a snooping asshat clearly falling over and stumbling drunk and John Winchester's short fuse was not a good combination.

Add the fact that he was their nosy neighbor that his father clearly despised and they had a real problem.

It didn't go well after that. The guy actually had the stones to throw the first punch. Their dad was an ex-marine, tough as nails. Never let it be said that John Winchester never had a fight in his life before that. The look in his eyes as he paused before effortlessly picking up the guy was akin to murderous satisfaction. The look in his eyes had clearly said _'I was_ _ **SO**_ _waiting for you to do that_.' He threw him about ten yards as if he was a toy, telling him to ' _Get the Hell off his property'_.

They never saw that guy again. John must have scared him to within an inch of his life, Irish temper and all. They had not seen that fool in years.

Come to think of it, he moved shortly after that incident.

Now, here again, minus the influence of alcohol, _thankfully_ , Dean was faced with the prospect of having to stand in the way of possible furniture flying. John was getting dangerously near to losing what little control he had. Though his face was calm and stoic, Dean could see past his exterior. John was gritting his teeth and shaking with adrenaline like that of a wild animal.

But Sam was at least as, if not more stubborn, refusing to back down when he was in the danger zone. "It's called an academic scholarship, genius. And I was under the impression that you wanted me to continue the family business, work at the garage," he chuckled, lacking any humor. "Just face it. You're just ashamed that your youngest would rather join the debate team. You're angry because I'm not a carbon copy of you," Sam snarled venomously, holding up a hand in a halting gesture. "And while we're being honest, why don't you just admit that you're pissed off because I can think for myself. You just don't like not having control over me." He had complete satisfaction written across his face, a nasty smirk, and his arms crossed tight over his chest. Anyone who could read body language would notice the cocky stance and the satisfaction for what it was. Even Dean wanted to wipe that smirk right off his face.

That was the one thing you should never say to their dad. Opinion or not, no one should _ever_ say something like that and expect anything but a meltdown.

Sammy was extremely independent. Even when he was a baby, until toddlerhood, he never let anyone feed his bottle to him or he threw a fit. He _fought_ for what he wanted, _said_ whatever he wanted to say, and _did_ whatever he wanted to do, everybody else be damned.

Don't get him wrong, Dean was _proud_ of him for going after what he wanted, for having the courage to stand up to their dad when he was being pig-headed, but it was something Dean just couldn't do. He idolized his dad, wanted to be just like him. He didn't want to work at his dad's garage, the family business. It wasn't his ideal future. But he wanted his dad to be proud of him, to look at him the way he looked at Sam, with pride. Dean had never had that, being the oldest. He always felt like he had to try twice as hard just to be half as good.

But sometimes Sammy took things a little _too_ far.

Dean was belligerent when he got pissed off, but Sam was downright _nasty_. Whatever he thought came barreling out of his mouth, no filter to speak of. He was _head on_ , not caring about the consequences, apparently never hearing of a little thing called _tact_.

He took things to a whole different level, as if he _liked_ to fight. He ended up fighting with their dad over some of the most ridiculous things. They were always at each other's throats.

Okay, and sometimes Dean wanted to wrap a knot around his overgrown brother's head himself, but he was usually the one trying to calm people down. Like his mother, they were both great at mediating, but they sucked at arguments. It might be a little _cliché_ , but Dean considered himself a lover, not a fighter.

John growled angrily. "Don't take that tone with me young man. You are under _my_ roof, so you will show me respect," John bellowed in a challenging voice. He began to puff out his chest and clench his fists until his knuckles turned white.

"Respect is a two way street, _John_!" Sam seethed through gritted teeth and glared with as much forcefulness. "Why don't you just get over it and accept that I'm gonna do what I want, _when_ I want!"

"No!" John barked, "You're gonna do as you're told. And if you don't', you won't be allowed to see that little girlfriend of yours who's been filling your head. This is just a phase, and you need to get over it."

"NO IT FUCKIN' ISN'T!"

Dean exhaled shakily, feeling an exhaustion headache coming on. Enough was enough.

"Okay, both of you calm down, now!" Dean bellowed in command, loud and firm, while stepping into no man's land. He put a hand on either of their shoulders, snapping them back in the moment. Both of them found the gentle touch soothing and demanding at the same time, relaxing their tense bodies after a few moments.

His mom snorted. "Yeah, you two are bickering like an old married couple on steroids," she chastised sarcastically, glaring at them both with her piercing green eyes.

John turned to his wife, stubborn pleading in his eyes. "Mary I-" their dad began, but she cut him off speedily before he could finish, her glare silently saying ' _try me_.'

She raised a hand in silence. "Don't you, Mary me. You go to the garage and work on your car. That always seems to calm your nerves," she commanded, her words final, jabbing a thumb over her shoulder towards the door to the back of the kitchen. He looked like he wanted to argue, opening and closing his mouth like a floundering fish until he saw the stony look his wife gave him and without preamble or argument stomped out the door to the garage.

 _Wow_ , Dean thought to himself, in awe at how his mom put a stop to the argument. _Who ever said the man was the head of the house is full of crap. At least that's how it is in this house_. Just the idea of it made him chuckle. Though, everyone around him was too caught up in the moment and pissed to even notice or make a comment about what he was laughing at.

Mary then turned to Sam like a cobra striking, so quick that you could hear her neck snap.

She pointed a finger threateningly in her son's face. "And _you_ stop challenging your father!" she snapped decisively. It must have been futile to retort, Sam nodding like he understood, her tone brooking no argument. "He just wants to help. You have to give him time to come around. Now you go find something to do."

Sam nodded shortly and walked away. He nodded and mumbled something along the lines of _yeah right_ , and went off to do his homework. His little brother, geek boy that he was, loved school, it was like a sickness. Dean was secretly proud of him for it, though he would never tell him that.

Their mother rolled her eyes and sighed, looking at nothing in particular, like she was seeing a past memory, flipping her long, honey hair out of her face. "I never thought I would hear myself say it, but I miss when _you_ and your brother used to fight all the time. At least it was just harmless pranks."

Dean had to agree with her. He and his brother used to play dirty pranks on each other. He remembered it like it was yesterday. It all started with Sam putting Nair in Dean's shampoo bottle. It was a classic, but too much of an overused prank for his tastes. Dean had to go to school for two weeks wearing a hat until his hair grew back a little. He was quite fond of his hair, so he retaliated with putting itching powder in his little brother's underwear while he was in the bathroom getting ready for school.

He didn't take too kindly to that. The following day he put superglue on Dean's root beer bottle in retaliation. Later that afternoon, Dean went so far as to put a smorgasbord of different types of cheeses together and smear it in between his little brother's mattress. The smell in his room was horrendous, and he didn't find out about it for a month, horrifyingly suspecting he had a yeast infection or something.

After a couple months of these antics, they both called a truce. Not because they weren't still at each other's throats, but rumors began circulating about them around the school. Apparently, one of the jocks said that Sam got the Clap from his girlfriend Jess, on account of them knowing jack about the itching powder and it being common knowledge that they were an item.

Dean had laughed maniacally at that, especially seeing the monumental bitch-face Sam was sporting that day. That was until Dean heard that he was, apparently, shaving his head to join a white supremacy group.

Dean's hand _might_ have slipped, _accidentally_ pouring a whole _box_ of itching powder into the school's public washing machine, mixing the soap with it. And the way none of the football team ever washed their jockstraps more than once, and it just _happened_ to be laundry day as per the orders of the coach, they were none the wiser. The only indication that anything was wrong was how every single member of the team suddenly developed an itch down under, publicly groping and scratching themselves until the coach made it mandatory that all of them get checked out.

Dean and his brother had had a lot of laughs after that. No one had ever found out. No one _ever_ knew that they had pulled off one of the greatest pranks in their high school's history.

Whatever the case, they both made a pact to never do these childish pranks to each other ever again, for the rumors and among other reasons. They might have gone too far, but they came back from it. As far as Dean was concerned, he and his bro stuck together through thick and thin, and only _they_ could mess with each other.

When Sam came back in the kitchen, he was a little more amiable. He wrapped their mom up in a bear hug and a muttered a smug apology.

Dean coughed and cleared his throat expectantly. "So who's making me food?" he groaned, covering his discomfort from the sappy moment unfolding in front of him.

Sam scoffed. "Why can't you make your own? Oh right, I forgot. You might burn the house down," he teased widening his hazel eyes. Dean's face turned red, blanching as he said it.

He was referring to the time when Dean went to make some pasta in the microwave. He had been eight at the time in his defense. That was nearly ten years ago. He had been too lazy and impatient to stand in front of the stove and wait for the noodles to cook slowly. He had forgotten the water. The microwave had been smoking and the entire house smelled like when you had a moldy campfire. He was extremely lucky that the microwave hadn't caught on fire. Hoping that his food was at least salvageable, he was disappointed to discover that the noodles were tarry and black as night.

Dean rolled his eyes and scowled at his brother. " _Once_ , that only happened _once_! And besides, I'm only supposed to sit here and look cute," he snarked with a cocky, lopsided grin.

Sam rolled his eyes again. "Yeah, that's what you do. Everyone thinks you are a _joy_ to be around!" he crabbed with a mixture of sarcasm and jealousy.

"Why are you being so snarky about it? I'm adorable," Dean bit back with a confident smirk. His mother grinning and shaking her head did not escape his notice, clearly enjoying the harmless back and forth her children were engaging in.

"Don't you mean mentally challenged?" Sammy replied nonchalant with an unamused, straight face. Dean gave him the finger and Sam stuck his tongue out at him in rebuke. "Whatever. So, I'm going to the library to work on my term paper for English," he told them with a sideward glance at his mother, not even trying to hide his genuine enthusiasm.

 _What a nerd_.

"Okay honey. Dinner is at six," she shouted loudly but Sam was already out of the kitchen. A muffled ' _yeah, yeah_ ' coming from the living room was the last they heard as the front door slammed shut.

His mom turned to him after a moment, an indulgent smile still in place. "So what would you like for breakfast sweetie? Or more accurately brunch." She turned with a fond smile to her eldest.

Dean shrugged dispassionately. "Maybe some eggs and bacon. And orange juice," he considered with a shrug of his shoulders, sitting down on the barstool at the island in the center of the kitchen. It was a retro style bar set, red leather bar stools, black granite countertops, like something one would find in a club, not that Dean was interior decorating savvy. Or that he had _ever_ gotten a fake ID to sneak into a club.

That was something he would take to his grave. There were just some things that you never tell your mother.

His mom smiled encouragingly. "So what are you gonna do today honey? Take Lisa to a movie at the mall or something? You could meet up with Benny or Ash too," she added neutrally, though he was in no way fooled by her, her eyes narrowing a shade disapprovingly from Dean's vantage point. Her profile was lackadaisical, but it was in her eyes, the hard determined look as she set to work frying some bacon and eggs in the same skillet.

She was not subtle in her skepticism about the reasons Dean and his friends had had a falling out. In her opinion, none of them had been good enough for him.

In his opinion, it was the other way around.

Benny and Ash were, heavy emphasis on the word _were_ , Dean's best friends until the end of junior year, but like most childhood relationships, they just stopped putting the effort forth to hang out. He did not feel particularly close to any of his friends. He was more content to stick with his family.

Benny had moved from Louisiana in their freshman year and they had immediately hit it off. He had this cool suave way about him, never letting his temper get the best of him. Benny had been like a brother to Dean, until he started hanging with the wrong crowd. And like always with it started with a girl.

Sometimes Dean suspected him and his new crowd of being involved in some sort of gang. Dean even jokingly referred to his friend as a vampire, his aversion to light all of a sudden, his pale complexion, sleeping during the day, partying all night.

But all good things came to an end.

Benny had dropped out at the end of last year, and over the summer, he had fallen into vice, involving himself with drugs, sex and alcohol abuse. Needless to say, finding his friend with a hypodermic needle sticking out of his arm, Dean had tried to get his friend help, as hard as it was. Last he heard, Benny had to leave the state, a rumor going around that he had freaked out, turned on his gang and it all ended in blood. That was the last Dean had heard of him. Even before his parents had given him a stern talking to, he had given up.

Dean blazed his own trail. That whole _druggy-stoner_ thing was not his scene.

Ash, on the other hand, had been the _complete_ opposite. He was more quiet and introverted, and Dean even joked that he was an alien from another planet. He wasn't your typical nerd though. He was a genius, good with computers, but he had an aversion to authority figures. And Dean would swear on his life that the dealings he had going on weren't exactly kosher. Ash had graduated early though, planning on attending MIT. But last Dean heard he dropped out, and knowing Ash, he was probably in prison for hacking into the FBI database.

For all Dean knew, his friends could have been dead or worse. He had not received any phone calls or texts from them, as many times as Dean tried to get in touch, they just weren't answering. Dean swore that Benny was socially challenged. He may not have even known how to _use_ the phone, or if he even _had_ one. Knowing Benny and what he'd gotten himself into, he probably wanted to stay below the radar.

It hurt Dean, if he was honest with himself. He didn't know them well, but he felt almost like he could've done more, helped them. He didn't like feeling like he failed his friends.

But if they decided to get in touch, Dean was just a phone call away.

But after a while, months passed without a word and Dean, without much fight, had decided to simply let it go.

It was a fact of life that when high school was over, everyone moved on, all your friends grew up and eventually left. And it was scary. If Dean had to head-shrink himself, he would have guessed that it was some kind of defense mechanism, not allowing himself to get too attached with relationships when all it would accomplish was him getting him hurt.

Lisa was the school's head cheerleader. She was a little _loose_ for Dean's tastes, to put it mildly. She flirted with anything on legs, and that included girls, which was… _alright_. They had had some…interesting times together, for sure, that _very_ bendy weekend, doing things that he couldn't even pronounce, but she wasn't relationship material. She was a free spirit and Dean was more grounded. She and Dean had just fooled around for the better part of last year for the most part, but he had wanted more than she was willing to give, _ironically_. Usually it was the opposite, the _girl_ being the needy one, not the _guy_.

He could remember their first date. They had gone to the drive-in movie theater. They had ignored most of the movie, sitting in the backseat, doing things that his mother would be ashamed of, when all of a sudden Dean had suddenly stopped. He had realized that she meant _nothing_ to him, absolutely nothing, and that was not okay with him by a long shot. He had felt dirty, like some kind of filth was under his skin.

Lisa had been disappointed, but Dean couldn't've cared less, giving her the excuse that he didn't want to rush into anything, which was partly true. He had been, after all, new at it. Sex had seemed like something he was not really interested in. It just seemed so… not _for_ him. He had reservations with what could happen after, but the consequences took a backseat to what truly bothered him. He had fooled around with other girls, _many girls_ , for sure. But none of them had ever given him _that_ feeling. The one where his breath caught in his throat and butterflies flapped around in his stomach and electricity surged through his veins, setting fire to his skin and his very soul.

Maybe he _had_ read one too many romance novels, the kind that _over-romanticized_ what a relationship was supposed to be like. Okay, so he _did_ read a bit. Sue him. It was a guilty pleasure.

He sometimes wondered if there was something wrong with him, if maybe he was thinking too much or that he was not doing it right. The spark just was not there. His heart was just not in it.

He wanted it to _mean_ something.

Dean had stopped hanging around with Lisa full stop, and girls in general. If he wanted to hang out with anyone it would be his little brother, his family. They had each other's backs.

His mother's expectant face came back into focus and he shook his head of his musings. He smiled uncomfortably and shrugged, hoping that he had not been too transparent for her to see. "Nah, me and the guys just grew apart. And I broke it off with Lisa. She's in a different place. She's only interested in the way I look. I don't think she cares enough to even get to know me as a person," he said, not at all attempting to hide the hopeless maudlin from his mother.

To anyone else, he must have sounded like a whiny brat. He had a close bond with his mom, could talk to her about anything and everything. She was the only person he could be comfortable enough with to talk about this stuff, his _feelings_.

Even that word made Dean cringe. Just the idea. Sons were usually, naturally closer to their mothers. He was _not_ the type to care and share, but with her, it was like she could read him. He got the vibe that when she stared at him, she was looking right into his thoughts, heart, and soul.

He couldn't hide from her, and she understood and listened to him more than anyone. She would see right through him if he ever did lie to her, so there was no use, and she deserved honesty more than anyone.

She smiled warmly at him. "Well, I'm glad you want more than a shallow cheerleader," she sniggered. He chuckled, having no intention of holding back a smile of his own. "I mean you need someone who takes an interest in you and that you can carry on a conversation with. You'll find someone," she soothed knowingly. She slowly put her hand over his and he gave her a nervous smile in return. "Just be patient and have faith. And don't settle for just any piece of tail that sways past," she added in a crude, mother-of-the-year kind of way.

"Mom!" he giggled, astounded at her raunchy comment.

"What?" she frowned pseudo-innocently, "I have to keep it real," she smirked.

Dean smiled, feeling his heart and stomach quivering with mirth. She obviously wanted him to have someone to spend his life with. But most of all she wanted him to be happy.

It was all very funny, and he had no idea why.

He nodded, furrowing his brow in frustration, his features sobering. "Yeah, but sometimes…sometimes I feel like I'll never find anybody worth my interest. I mean I've practically dated the whole female population in school. And none of them exactly do it for me. I mean, I've got the reputation of being a man-whore, but that's not true. There's just no fireworks going off or even a little spark. Dating for real terrifies me," he frowned awkwardly, his cheeks blushing scarlet.

Sometimes Dean wondered if it was the girls or if he was stuck in a deep closet of denial. But he had never been attracted to guys, so he could rule that out. He felt a physical attraction to women, _plural_. He sighed dreamily to himself, mentally laughing. _Boobs_.

Shaking his head, he cleared his thoughts. So yeah, he found the female form attractive, but that was just window dressing. There was nothing, no depth. Every girl he had shown interest in had left him empty, and his friends had just plain left him. It was hard for him to get the energy up to put himself out there when he didn't even see the point.

"Well, just open up to people more. Just be open-minded. Don't force it, just let it happen," she tried her utmost powers of persuasion.

He sighed, his eyes resting on the tabletop. "Thanks mom. I guess I can try," he replied reluctantly.

Mary sighed, smiling sadly as she walked around the island, placing her hands on her son's face, cradling his jaw and cheeks in her hands gently. Dean stared up at his mom, confused, green eyes clouded over uncomfortably. "You live too much in your own head honey," Dean inhaled sharply, her words pointing out just how well she could read him.

Dean cleared his throat, feeling his eyes mist over a little. "I'm sorry," his index finger rose to his temple, "It's so noisy in here, I can't shut it up. Sometimes I'm afraid I'll start talking to myself," he chuckled sadly.

"A lot of _writers_ talk to themselves," Mary told him, musingly. "Sometimes the best and most intellectual conversations Dean, they're the ones we have with ourselves," she soothed, still smiling at her son as if he was a gift from God.

Dean nodded and felt his throat close up, his eyes watering and his heart constricting painfully in his chest. It was a direct nudge, and it had always made Dean feel uncomfortably incompetent, not good enough, in his own opinion, to meet his mom's hopes, her delusions that Dean would do something big with his life. She had said before that there would be a writer in the family, but Dean knew it would never be him. He had a habit of writing down his profound thoughts, although he never did anything with them. They never became lines in a poem or a song, or a chapter in a story, he just wrote them down whenever he felt… when he _felt_. It was for his own sanity, his loneliness, as much as for his mom, to thank her for an outlet when too much was happening in his head. Honestly he had thought about it once or twice, but it wasn't like he was actually going to do anything with it. It was like talking to someone, writing in his journal, and since he felt like he hardly ever had a real friend in the world, outside of his family, it felt like his only option.

It was kind of scary that someone knew him that well. Frightening, that she could tell just by looking that he lived more in his own head than in the living world, thinking instead of experiencing.

The next few moments were spent with him methodically chewing his lower lip, and stubbornly trying to _not_ think as his mother went about tidying up the kitchen.

Dean stood up when he was done, the moment passed. "Well, I'm going out to the garage. Thanks for breakfast," he smiled gratefully.

His mom answered back with a tender smile. "You're welcome honey."

He nodded and walked around his mother, unloading the dishes into the dishwasher. He turned around and walked back to his mom, enveloping her in a hug.

Whatever mood he was in, his mom was always there for him, empathetic enough to _know_ him, always ready to listen when he was feeling unsteady. He appreciated her honesty, even if he felt like he was constantly flapping around in the wind without any direction in sight, even if actually following her advice was a lot harder than it sounded. A quick peck to her cheek and he was on his way out to the garage. If only they made women like his mom, then he would have found what he thought he was missing.

* * *

Crossing the floor to the wall with all the lawn equipment, John lifted a red felt marker from his workbench and crossed off a day on the calendar, hanging there on the back wall.

He sighed heavily and crossed over to his car. He took in a ragged breath and put his head in his hands and just held it there for a few moments. When his son walked into the garage, he leant over the car, lost in his thoughts, completely unaware that someone was there to hear him. "So, two days left," his deep, gravelly voice grounded out, his posture defeated, without hope. John was a proud man at heart. He did not have many regrets in his life.

But this was one thing that would come close. He should have rethought this. There wasn't much time left.

"Two days left till what?" his eldest son's voice drew his attention away, making him jump with adrenaline, feeling caught out.

 _Oops_ , he thought. "Oh...umm, nothing... There's nothing to worry about." _What a blatant lie_. John turned to look at the car as a distraction and all his thoughts flew to his family.

 _Two days._

 _It's not enough._

Dean slowly made his way over to where his dad was standing, his eyes reflexively landing on the big black hunk of metal. Dean loved cars as much, if not more, as his dad. Especially this one. It was his dad's baby, words John was man enough to admit, a classic American muscle car, a jet black 1967 Chevy Impala.

He had been working on it as a side project for as long as Dean could recall, though he was not sure if it was ready to be in running condition yet.

His dad was staring at the windshield like he was ready to shatter it into a million tiny pieces, intense gaze not wavering from that one spot, a brooding and pensive expression on his face, lost in thought, completely oblivious to his surroundings.

"What's up dad? You look like you're constipated," Dean teased, attempting to lighten the mood. But his dad continued to stare off into the distance, not saying a word for what felt like years.

It was scaring the hell out of him.

John smiled to himself, still not looking up at his son. "You know…. I brought my baby home from the salvage yard 18 years ago. Nothing but scrap metal. I knew it was going to be a lot of work most of the time, building it up from nothing. But it was all worth it," he croaked out with a tear glistening in his eye. He turned to look at his eldest son and a huge, shaky, tear-soaked smile slowly spread across his face.

Dean frowned, feeling his breath leave him, his heart constrict painfully. "Dad, are you okay? You're scaring me a little here," Dean laughed nervously, frowning, confusion warring in him, uneasy with what he was hearing. He had never, not once, seen his dad so…. _emotional_. His dad never talked about these things, never showed what was under that hard exterior of his. He was tough, a macho man, a stone unmoving.

This was a complete shock for Dean. He didn't know what to think.

His dad chuckled lightly, without mirth. "Yeah," John sighed, while wiping his face as the tears began to fall down his cheeks. "I just…. It reminded me of bringing you home from the hospital. Raising you from a little baby, you were more than a handful at times, but now you are in your last year of high school. You have a level head on your shoulders. You are a good person with good morals and are one of the most selfless people I've ever met. You're always thinking of others before yourself, especially your brother. You're a better man than me, accepting people for what they are. It's just… really hard for me." Dean could hear the admission in there, the apology in his eyes, something in him breaking at treating his youngest son so badly, for being just like him.

"No father could be more proud of his eldest son," John murmured a proud, wet smile expanding across his face, beaming at his son with love. It was hard for him to say, clearly, and was made all the more meaningful to Dean, the sincerity he could hear in his voice, see in his tear-filled eyes.

It was seriously worrying him. Something was _wrong_. No one changed on a whim. Seeing the impossible was throwing him a little off balance. Something big must have happened.

Dean realized belatedly that his hands were shaking. "Is this really you talking?" he choked out hoarsely, voice nearly a whisper, half teasingly but dangerously close to a sob, as his eyes started to burn and sting hot. He didn't ever expect to see his father cry, and honestly he didn't know what else to make of it.

John laughed, a deep throaty gravel, expected from such a manly man. "Yes, it's really me." He took a deep breath and Dean could see it, that a switch had flipped and the armor was back in place, the mask of surety and confidence eradicating the moment, as if it had never existed. "And I was thinking," John deliberated as he picked up the keys to the car and handed them to Dean, "she should be yours, since you have helped me get her ready. And since you two have so much in common," Dean's own shocked thoughts drowned his father's loud chuckle.

If seeing his father have an emotional breakdown was not out of the norm, then this was. It was like when you knew it was your time, and too little time was left, and you started giving away everything to try and make amends.

If only Dean had known then how right he had been.

Dean's mouth fell open, his eyes blown wide in surprise. "Dad….what….no, I can't she's-," he stuttered, lost for words. There was something going on here, something ominous, and it was scaring the hell out of him, how his dad was playing right into his thoughts, like it was a last man's wish or breath, a dying man making amends to a son he had wronged somehow.

It was terrifying.

His dad smiled serenely, raising his hand up to silence him. "Yours, consider it an early graduation present by a couple of months." He smiled slowly, expecting Dean to take his actions as nothing but pride.

He didn't want his eldest to have any suspicions, wanting him to remain ignorant of what was coming. If he had anything to do about it, if he had his way, his son would remain safe, both of them would, and they would go about their lives as normal, never missing him.

It was part of his curse. He distanced those he cared about, not wanting to cause them any pain.

Dean shook his head, horrified. "But I can never repay you for this dad," he countered in a shaky whisper, starting to get a little choked up, completely petrified by his father's uncharacteristic behavior.

John clapped a big hand on his son's shoulder, a firm grip, but not threatening, an embrace. "Just take care of her or I'll take it out of your ass," his dad reasoned with a chuckle, wrapping his son into a tight bear hug even as the tears came again, grasping onto his son for dear life.

He could not keep them back anymore. He knew the day was coming closer. There was so much he wanted to say, to Dean, to apologize to Sam, to his wife. But there was not enough time left, not enough words to tell them how much he loved them in two days, much less ten years. It seemed like a lifetime of words needed to be said, things that needed to be done, amends to be made.

He didn't want it to end like this, and he was scared. He didn't want to leave his family, but it was out of his hands. He had made the decision all of his own free will, and the time had come to pay the price.

After a few moments, Dean was the one to pull away with reddened skin and a defeated expression, rubbing the back of his neck, one of his nervous habits, stubbornly hoping his dad would tell him what was bothering him.

When his dad spoke, he was disappointed. "So you want to finish these shelves for your mom?" John changed the subject quickly, before his son's curiosity could probe any further, and Dean was kind of thrown for a loop, suddenly understanding what it would be like to live with someone who had bipolar disorder. "I figure if we start today, we might be done by Christmas," John laughed harshly in an attempt to move on from the moment they just had, acting like nothing ever happened.

Dean sighed in defeat, knowing a diversionary tactic a mile away, but he also knew his father's word was law, so he dropped it. He wiped his face dry with the back of his hand, afraid that his voice wouldn't come out as strong as he'd hoped. "Sure. We just need to run to the hardware store for some stain and wood trim." Even as he went along with it, Dean felt like he was betraying his instincts, going against the grain.

His dad nodded uncomfortably, and Dean could see his hands shaking. "We should have this done by Monday. At least your book collection isn't as crazy as your mom's," John quipped with an all-knowing smirk on his face as he wiped away any stray tears.

Dean laughed uncomfortably. "You know me too well dad. Better with my hands than with my brain," he nodded, honestly waiting for someone to pull a blanket over his head. He wanted his dad back, the brave, confident alpha male, giving him direction. The idea that his dad was human, had weaknesses, had never even occurred to him before. Dean wasn't the only one to get uncomfortable when his feelings were involved, but he couldn't ignore it when it was staring at him in the face.

It was a cry for help, but his dad had lost his voice, and he was lost in the wilderness.

John smirked facetiously, his mask faltering even as he considered his son's words with a shrug. "I wouldn't entirely agree with that. But if I do say so myself, you get that from me." His smile absolutely lit up his face, for the moment his pride for his son winning out over his misery.

Dean nodded and then brightened slightly, a thought suddenly occurring to him. "Hey… can I drive? We could try her out," he inquired with a sheepish smile, shaky even as he gestured to the Impala.

His dad nodded serenely, spending time with his son, doing something they both enjoyed, it was almost enough to make up for what was coming. "Sure," he shrugged, "just try to keep her _under_ sixty. She's got a lot of power."

Dean slid the keys into the ignition and she took her first breath of life, the engine roaring ferociously, growling . "Listen to her purr. Never heard anything more beautiful," Dean's voice was laced with pride, choosing to enjoy the moment instead of dwelling on it. His dad only smiled encouragingly, and if his dad could brush whatever was bothering him to the side, then so could he.

The car was in pristine condition, her tan leather seats with not a scuff mark, and the black paint flawless, not a single scratch. Dean put her in drive and let her take her first miles out into the real world, cruising along the highway, gliding on the open road, forgetting for the moment that something seriously wrong was going on.

He should have known then.

* * *

When they arrived back from the hardware store, Dean walked into the house like the air had been let out of his sails, the stilted silence in the car too much for him. His dad wasn't telling him something, he could _feel_ it, but there was nothing he could do to sway his dad into telling him anything he didn't want to. He had to come clean in his own time.

He wasn't going to hold his breath. He'd be waiting a long time.

Those thoughts were wiped away almost instantly as the most decadent smell assaulted his nose. He inhaled deeply and let it calm his nerves, guiding him the aroma permeating from the kitchen. There was a homemade apple pie, hot out of the oven, sitting on the counter cooling, calling his name.

Ever since he could remember as a child, apple pie had been Dean's weakness. He and his mom used to stay home and bake when he was too young to attend school or go with his dad to work. The first time he tasted it, he thought he had died and gone to heaven. No one had yet to make an apple pie that was better than his mom's.

His mouth began to water as he leant over and breathed in deep the intoxicating scent of baked, gooey apples, cinnamon, and the warm, crumbly graham cracker crust. He was just about to snitch a piece but his feet shuffling across the tile floor must have made enough noise to be caught out, nearly jumping out of his skin when his mom spoke.

From another room, mind you. Motherly hearing was the worst.

"Don't you dare touch that pie yet, Dean Winchester!" she shrieked from down the hallway.

"But mom-," he complained but was stopped mid-sentence.

"Don't even think about it," she cut him off with a warning tone, glaring from the kitchen doorway just as his dad walked in, chuckling and not uttering a single word, a smug look on his face as he trudged past the kitchen and down the hall and up the stairs to wash up for dinner.

Dean sighed heavily in annoyance. "Oh well," he gasped defeated, and then added in a sensual voice, his index finger pointed at the pie, feeling childishly excited, warning. "This isn't over until I say it is. You will be mine."

His mom only snorted, rolling her eyes affectionately as she turned around and walked back down the hallway. Pie crisis averted.

* * *

Light blared through his eyelids, turning them red as he scrunched them shut tight. Dean groaned in annoyance, not quite ready to get up yet. "Five more minutes," he whined, a mumbled cry into his pillow as he buried his face into the musty cotton.

"Absolutely not, get your butt up," he heard his mom's impossibly awake-sounding voice as she flipped the light switch on, making him squint his eyes until they adjusted. As he blearily turned and gazed out the window through sleep-fogged eyes, there was no daylight yet and he turned his attention to his alarm clock.

 _6 AM._ Dean groaned and burrowed his head further into his pillow.

 _How was anyone up at such an ungodly hour_ _?_

Dean was not a morning person. Sometimes his dad had to literally drag him out of bed by his ankles to wake him up for school. He liked his sleep.

Sundays were not one of Dean's favorite days of the week, which was kind of bizarre. Sundays were supposed to be the day to rest. Even _God_ rested on the seventh day.

Church wasn't Dean's idea of a good time, not that it was supposed to be. It was not that he _didn't_ believe in God, that was not the issue. Though to be honest, his standing with the Big Guy upstairs had been a little strained as of late.

Dean _really_ disliked church, though. To be frank, it was boring, _falling-asleep-in-the middle-of-class_ boring, not just a normal dose of boredom where you're sitting around the house aimlessly trying to find something to pass the time, ' _miserable_ ' written across his forehead.

As far as Dean was concerned, he could have a close relationship with God and go about his Sunday in whatever way he deemed right. Having faith in the Lord and forcing yourself to go to Church every Sunday was absurd to him.

But that did not stop him from going. _Every_. _Sunday_. _Morning_.

 _At 8AM._

His parents had been taking him and Sam since they were still in footy pajamas. His parents were masters of the guilt trip. His dad would say " _It's a good way to start the week,_ " always somewhat resigned, as if someone was putting him up to it. Sometimes his mom would threaten him with, " _Get your ass up or I'll cut your hair while you're sleeping_ ," or something to that effect. The theory that his mother was the head of the household was beginning to ring true.

His family knew though. He hated going to church. But he figured he should suck it up and do it for his family.

That didn't mean he couldn't make snarky comments about having to get up at the ass-crack of dawn though.

Though Sam, or his parents for that matter, probably didn't realize it, but Dean _did_ actually have a brain in his head. He _was_ paying attention to the world around him.

Last Sunday's sermon was about preaching some judgmental crap against gay people, _unspeakable abominations_ , because of what they were born with, going to Hell for liking those of their _own_ gender.

Last Dean checked, judgment was reserved for God.

As righteously angry as Dean got, no one knew. These faceless people out there didn't know Dean, didn't realize that Dean was paying attention.

It made Dean so furious, to the point that he didn't even want to _look_ at a church anymore. He wanted to stand up at the front of the church, have his _own_ sermon, scream at the top of his lungs to all those bigoted asshats, to knock some sense into these narrow-minded people, with their narrow-minded beliefs, that they were ready to condemn someone they didn't know. He wanted to stand up and say how dare these people assume that God would condemn his creations, to judge people when they weren't really hurting anyone. But one person could not change an idea bred from innumerous generations' past. People didn't change, only the times.

Some things were better left unsaid, though it killed Dean how his father could only nod in agreement at their congregation, like he agreed with all that nonsense. His mom never did though. She was always supportive, and loyal, shaking her head in disappointment that there were still people in this day and age who believed in that holy crap. She was at least understanding of the world around her. If one of her sons were gay, it wouldn't matter. Nothing they ever did would ever make her love them less. It was one of a million reasons why Dean admired her.

People were who they were. God created everything and everyone, exactly as they were _meant_ to be. He believed that. Who did all these judgmental people think they were? What made them any better? Why were people made to feel shame for something they had no control over? Who were they to speak for God, to claim to know what He wanted them to believe?

People were raised to believe in those ideas bred into them by their parents, and their parents' parents, stubborn, hurtful beliefs based on ideas in a book. And it was just that, a book.

Free will, and the ability to think for oneself, now that was the gift they were given. All it took was one voice to speak out, to break the cycle of hate and misunderstanding.

But free will was kinda the problem though as well.

Dean knew a lot of people who went to his church, specifically those closer to his own age. Most of them went to his school, and they went out and got drunk at parties, had unprotected sex, and then came to church and acted like they were the definition of innocence. Dean couldn't deny that he'd gone to some keggers, he'd done some things that he could _never_ tell his parents, but he didn't consider himself to be a hypocrite. Dean probably didn't look it from his reputation, but he _did_ have morals. Contrary to popular belief, he never went around and banged any random person. He was not a saint, but at least he _cared_ about those he chose to fool around with.

So sue him if he liked sex. He was a normal red-blooded American teenager. There was no harm in finding yourself, as long as you weren't hurting anyone.

Let him never mention the rumors of the adulterers in their congregation, a married man with two kids, nodding his head about homosexuality being a sin, while he was banging one of the guys in Dean's class.

 _Pot, meet kettle._

Dean cringed and thanked God at the same time. As far as he was concerned, apparently anyone was capable of anything. Gay, straight, or _whatever_ , didn't determine if a person was a deviant or buckets of crazy.

People were crazy, all on their own. It had nothing to do with God.

Sometimes people took their free will to the extreme, trying to impose their beliefs on others, instead of letting others live their lives. Religion, in this day and age, and as far back as history showed, was one of the major causes of war in the world, and was sometimes used as an excuse for people to do what they wanted, committing mass killings in God's name. It was not what He intended at all.

Dean had never considered himself as one for existential thought, but then he realized that he _was_. His proclivity for getting lost in his own head was second to none. He had never identified with any _set_ religion either. He considered himself more spiritual than religious, courteous to people of all nationalities, letting them do what they wanted, within reason. People were different, and they spoke in different tongues, had their own cultures and beliefs.

Dean prided himself on being a realist, open-minded, rational.

Dean felt a headache coming on as he sat up, trying to slow his mind's workings and get ready to face the gallows it seemed. It was weird how his mind took off without him, on a tangent without his permission. Sometimes he wished he could turn his thoughts off, bury them deep down where they wouldn't ever see the light of day.

* * *

That day in Church, while desperately trying not to nod off, preacher-man was going on and on about how God sends his angels to watch over them, unseen by human eyes and that they were here to prepare humanity for the inevitable time of the end, on judgment day.

Dean would _like_ to believe they were out there watching, somehow whispering guidance in his ear, and even that was a scary thought. It was bad enough sometimes, being in his own head. It was quite another story to have someone listening in, knowing how your mind works, and seeing inside your soul.

But, as far as Dean knew, he had never seen an angel. He was the type of person that needed to see with his own two eyes to classify something in the real column instead of the _crazy-ass-fantasy-world_ column.

His dreams played a part. Dean was certain they were nothing like humans, fluffy white wings and halos around their heads, like those depicted in pop culture. He imagined beings of ethereal, formless light, blazing angrily and consistently like the sun, righteous and never doubting their position, unlike every human on the Earth.

No. For him, he imagined fierce warriors, in spaces we could never see, light and dark feathers and a soft blue light, gazing at him, like it was bathing his soul in its brilliance, turning his every thought and motivation over and realizing how insignificant each human life was.

Dean was _certain_ that angels existed, but not in the spaces he knew, maybe only in dreams, in spirit, not seen with the naked eye.

And judgment day, Dean was not sure if he believed in all that crap. He had seen many people on those doomsday prep programs on TV, and they were all crackpots as far as he was concerned. God gave them only one life, and Dean felt that He wouldn't want people to live their lives in fear of something they had no control over. One thing he and preacher-man agreed on, thank God.

 _Be a good person. Do right by God and yourselves,_ he had intoned passionately.

Dean was a _go-with-the-flow_ kind of guy. He lived his life, did what he thought was right. And besides, all these beliefs were according to the Bible, a book written by Man, redistributed and changed down through the ages, open to many interpretations.

It was quite ironic that there were congregations out there that agreed with that sentiment. It was just another book written by Man. It could have been translated wrong. It could even have been _made up_. The same as some religions were created as a way to control people's morality and beliefs, oppressing people.

To control their minds, making them live in fear.

At least one thing about _their_ church was at least honest, not like most of those that led people to believe in things that were inherently blindly followed.

Some of Dean's fellow church-goers had gasped, shocked that someone in the church's position would even question what was written.

 _Faith_ , the preacher intoned. _Sometimes you have to take it all on faith. And to question your faith is to find a deeper faith_.

Rarely did any subject in church really ever pique Dean's interest, but something in him resonated deep, a truth of all those who had doubts.

Dean never enjoyed church, in the _entertaining_ sense, but he couldn't help but entertain these profound thoughts. Countless hours were spent daydreaming about nothing in particular, staring at the glass pictures of angels on the pane-glass windows, the guardians adorning the ceilings. He wondered sometimes if, maybe, the angels were looking down at him, hearing his thoughts, somehow influencing him to think like this, like a supernatural presence living in the foundations and bulk of the church was forcing him to think about things, to question his faith.

Dean thought about bringing it up to his family, but he never did. He didn't want them to think he was crazy, hearing voices he claimed came from angels. He didn't want to end up in a loony bin, and he didn't want to influence them to change _their_ decision. He saw the looks of purpose and belonging on their faces every time they were there, and decided that was enough for him.

He was desperately trying not to nod off at this point.

He'd just have to muddle through.

So he did what he did best, he sat there and thought.

* * *

Sunday evening found Dean's family in the living room, lounging around on the couch watching movies and eating more popcorn than humanly possible. They never really planned it to happen, but they inevitably gravitated together, and it was a habit that stuck as far back as Dean could remember. It was one of Dean's most cherished memories, simple nights spent as a family. But without fail, thirty minutes into a movie, his dad was fast asleep, sawing logs like no one's business. He had had a long day at work.

Sam straightened up from where he sat, a shit-eating grin on his face, a mischievous light coming on in his eyes. "Hey, we should go get some whipped-cream and a feather and-," Sam blabbed, but was cut off mid-sentence by their mom, her expression hard and cautionary.

"Don't even think about it Sammy. You have a death wish or need I remind you of yesterday?" she arched a brow pointedly, her big green eyes fierce.

Sam only shook his head sighing heavily, wordlessly staring at the TV but not really watching, his eyes narrowed, disappointed.

Mary sighed, shaking her head. Her head came up and Sam saw her eyes tired, sympathetic as she gazed on her sleeping husband. "Just let him sleep. He has to get up early again tomorrow and open the garage. He's been putting in a lot of hours this week, staying from open to close every day. I hope it changes soon. That new regular, Andy, is slower than molasses in a parked car and doesn't know his ass from his elbow. John kinda suspects he's smoking weed," she admonished shaking her head slightly.

Dean had met Andy a few times and his mom was right, he was a stoner. Dean could smell it on him every time they met. But Dean wasn't judging. There was nothing wrong with marijuana, despite what the government said. If the Indians smoked it why not? Andy was a high school dropout. His parents had kicked him out. Dean never asked why as it wasn't really his business. Andy wasn't a gearhead grease monkey, not really the best mechanic, but he tried. That's what counted.

Dean thought morbidly that this might be him someday, as he was not much different from the man. He didn't really have the drive to overachieve, to go above his means and step out of his comfort zone to make life better. He wasn't book-smart like his little brother.

Dean could see it, how his life was gonna be. Going through life working as a mechanic, not going to college or really making anything out of himself, a few one night stands, coming home every night to an empty apartment, alone, nothing to call his own.

Andy did seem a little slow, but he was a nice enough guy though.

Dean knew more about cars than Andy ever would, Dean's main language was cars. He'd succeed as a mechanic, at the least making a living, surviving. But just because he could fix cars satisfactorily did not mean he had a future in it, that it would take him anywhere worthwhile.

The future was always so uncertain, a truth that Dean was starting to really grasp the severity of.

Dean shook his head, schooling his features into a mask of aloofness, shaking off his depreciating thoughts. No more pity party. "Yeah! Why have you always got to be the one to start something with dad?" Dean nagged in a childish tone, staring Sam down. "That right there is why I always got the extra cookie Sammy," he snipped, a cocky smirk on his face, his spread fingers over his heart.

Sam scowled and rolled his eyes, nodding his head in agreement. "I guess you're right though; you were always the good son. Never disobeying dad because you're frightened you won't get his approval," he sauntered on, tone playful and dead-ass serious simultaneously as he ran his hand through his chin-length, brunette hair.

Dean chuckled good-naturedly. "All the girls seem to like me enough. At least I'm trying to get into their pants instead of wearing them," he taunted in a quiet, but clearly instigating tone, turning his head back to the TV.

Sam pursed his lips and rolled his eyes dispassionately, ignoring the barb he heard there, finding the meaning behind his brother's words to be affectionately playful instead of downright hostile. "What Jess and I have is deeper than that for your information, not that you would know anything about that. I'll just tell all the girls that you have some incurable disease."

"Hey, Short Bus!" Dean snapped, his green eyes blazing, hackles rising. "They'll all feel bad for me and spend even more time around me. I'll bet you a hundred bucks I can get them to do anything I want. Hah!" He clapped his hands triumphantly, grinning from ear to ear, self-satisfied.

Sam nodded sagely. Dean was relentless, always striving to have the last word, equal parts being the oldest; equal parts being the most stubborn human being on planet Earth.

"Whatever you say man-slut," he coaxed monotone, his smirk lopsided and eyes full of mirth.

Dean scowled, huffing incredulously while setting his eyes back on the show they weren't watching. "Bitch," he quickly jabbed back.

"Jerk," Sam smiled, all big teeth and gums.

Mary rolled her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose between her thumb and forefinger. "Wow! I'm so proud of the English you've both learned. I failed as a mother," she muttered sardonically, flaring her nostrils while she tight-lipped her response, not caring whether her sons heard her or not. Clearly she was trying to be stern, but her tone told another story.

Dean and Sam stared at each other silently, blank-faced until the moment dissolved into laughter, finding amusement in the absurdity of the whole exchange.

Their family may have their fights and disagreements, and they most certainly had strong personalities and a quick wit, but they always put that aside. They kind of had to. You never got to choose your family, that much was a given.

* * *

It was quiet here, people moving about randomly, hustling and bustling around without saying a word or whisper. Wherever here was, it resembled the mall in the next town over, but Dean didn't remember it being like this the last time he'd been here, devoid of life, the world covered in murk, the people gray and lifeless. It was so clean, _too_ clean. People walked in and out of shops empty handed, eyes dull and faces expressionless, soulless and hollow inside. They weren't remotely interested in any of the shops' goods, passing Dean on their way to nowhere, wandering aimlessly. He imagined this is what his idea of Hell would be like, mindless drones walking around, lives devoid of any meaning or direction, husks of wandering souls that had given up, staggering through this next stage of existence without any hope of escaping.

As he lugged forward past aimless wanderers, Dean felt it, a glacial breeze settling in his bones, paralyzing him, like this plane of existence was meant to suck the life out of you. Glancing from here to there, he laid eyes on his friends, people he had not spoken to for a while now. Benny, Ash, and his _not_ -girlfriend, Lisa, were all standing near the fountain at the center of the food court. They were all staring blankly at him, the same gray lifeless expressions as everyone else, without saying a word, out of reach for him.

Dean approached them and their bodies began to fade to opaque, ghostly shimmers, like whatever unfinished business they had was let go, letting them move on from this state of Purgatory. Now standing in front of them, he reached out and they vanished into wisps of shadow and vapor.

Dean narrowed his eyes and scowled, his breathing becoming heavy and labored with dread. This was frustrating. He wanted out of here. Someone or something was beckoning him through the gloom, a warmth building in his chest and pulsing through him, growing stronger the more he pressed on, but the desolate weight of loneliness pulled at him, as if forcing him to stay like the rest of the soulless, making him less and less willing to move. Every step he took, he felt more and more lost to this place, stuck in limbo with little to no hope of moving on.

But his legs moved on autopilot, taking him closer to that warmth, bringing him to the center of what he recognized as the food court. A huge crowd of people were gathered there, but they were all unmoving, sitting quietly in groups and staring at nothing, their expressions lost in space.

Dean's gaze moved around desperately, trying to decide which direction to take, each option feeling like he was doomed to repeat. His eyes warily searched the perimeter, until he saw two familiar people, his parents. They had the same blankness to them as the rest of the poor lost souls here. He moved forward, hoping against everything that when he reached them he could snap them out of it.

Dean started moving faster towards them, and the crowd moved in around him like a swarm of bees, impeding his line of sight, as if they were drones working for this dead place, its own sentient being knowing he was trying to escape. He began pushing and shoving people out of the way, determined to get to them, but everyone he forced out of his way, they worked as one unit, barring his way. Dean began to feel nausea building in his stomach. As he drifted closer, the warmth growing in his chest and vibrating like a beacon of hope, but the room seemed to stretch and he moved faster, desperate to get to them, until suddenly he couldn't move, stuck in place.

Dean glanced down at his feet and his breathing picked up, panicked, his eyes blown wide.

The tile under him had turned to inky black tar.

Dean grunted in anger, gritting his jaw as he began grasping desperately, grabbing anyone in his reach, imploring them to help him on his forward journey. Not one person seemed to care, that essential part of them gone or simply missing, apathy evident in their faces as they walked past him and paid him no attention. The drones of this limbo moved on without him, as if he was a ghost too.

Dean looked up, reaching out with his mind imploring his parents to notice him struggling. Then he saw Sammy appear, approaching his parents' table, the same lifeless look on him as the rest. Like a hive mind, they turned and faced him, still expressionless, waving to him. Dean renewed his struggle, trying to pull his legs up out of the tar, but to no avail. He was still glued to the floor. Dean entertained pulling his feet from his shoes and jumping away from the tar, but he was paralyzed in fear.

Dean began to feel overwhelmed with a coldness that squeezed the breath out of him, feeling claustrophobia set in and the mob of ghostly people moved in around him, cutting him off and making his heart beat erratically. All at once the crowded room of mauling souls turned to look at him, as if to say 'see, you belong here like the rest of us. We're just like you.'

Dean had a niggling feeling in his gut that they were going to trap him here for eternity. He didn't belong here. He was meant to be somewhere else. There was no meaning here. Something was missing and he needed to find it. He closed his eyes tight.

The warmth began to build inside and around him, a fire pulsing to life and burning the husks of the souls approaching him, warding off all the oppressive coldness in his heart. He felt the back of his neck tingle, that feeling like someone was watching him sending a shiver up his spine. The warmth was inside him now, inside his head, wrapping around his consciousness, hearing his distress, calming his thoughts like a balm to the soul.

And everything went dark. It was terrifying, but it was also comforting, knowing something was protecting him, warding off the darkness, and the emptiness of this place. The warmth was attaching to him, seeking him out. It was bathing him in its presence, giving him clarity and purpose where the others around him were devoid of it. It was light and good, and safety, devotion. It was a gentle feeling, a presence meant to guide and seek him when he was lost, finding him in the dark, extracting his distress and leaving him wanting.

A firm tepid hand landed on Dean's shoulder, dissipating the coldness seeping into his lungs, snapped him from his thoughts, the warmth now surrounding him. He turned and was struck utterly speechless.

Standing within two feet of him was a man. Dean realized belatedly all the gray surrounding the world was gone and the sounds of life came rushing back into reality. To any other passersby, it would seem to be a casual interaction between two young adults. But the look he gave Dean went deeper than his superficial senses. His deep blue eyes were soul-deep, like he had x-ray vision, the way his subtle smile turned to a pitying glower, intense and honest understanding of Dean's loneliness.

Dean barely had time to memorize the man's face as he turned and walked away. Dean stood there idly, his thoughts not on escaping any longer, his freedom granted by the retreating man. No he was entranced with the man, of his beauty, his warmth pulling Dean to safety. He was a soul among legions of those not worthy enough for salvation.

Dean had to find the man. Full pink plush lips, tousled, messy dark hair and a straight, prominent nose were imprinted in his mind, features which were so vibrant and angelic and alive, the complete opposite of the reality Dean had stumbled into, a place so devoid of hope and life.

Dean was enthralled by him. The man's eyes were intense, an ancient soul in them. They had seen more than any human could ever imagine, lived to see throughout the ages of the Earth. No one's eyes were that blue, like bright blue fire beaming and pulsating in their depths. They burned intensely, searing and imploring him to wake up, the deep blue giving meaning and life to him in this world of murky grays, giving him hope, that there was light out there.

Out of his daze, after what he would deny to his grave as _ogling_ , Dean tried to follow the mesmerizing man. He was gone, but the warmth he gave Dean beat in his heart, a reminder that he wasn't really alone anymore.

* * *

Dean awoke with a start, eyes wide and his chest moving up and down erratically, his breath panting heavily, feeling disoriented _. That was intense._

It felt so _real._

Dean glanced over at his alarm clock and sighed heavily, taking a few deep breaths to calm himself.

It was two full hours before he had to get up for school. Groaning in frustration, he slumped back down into his pillow breathing heavily to dispel his anxiety. Closing his eyes, Dean attempted to force himself back into oblivion again, but sleep evaded him, and he was slightly grateful. He never wanted to end up in a dream like that again. Feeling trapped in his own mind, unable to pull himself out of the Hell his own mind had conjured up. That was a scary thought. What if he did, and the next time the strange, but intense-looking man wasn't there to save him.

Dean shivered and let out a shaky breath. He laid there with his eyes open until it was time to get dressed and ready for school. He laid there resting, turning the dream over in his mind, trying to reimagine the man's delicate features, the exact shade of blue in his eyes.

* * *

Mondays sucked.

The day began like any other normal school day.

Dean and his little bro did their morning routine; brushing their teeth, taking their showers. Dean nearly had to drag Sammy out of bed by his ankles. Sam tried to ignore the alarm clock and sleep in. And then it was time for breakfast. Not necessarily in that, or any order for that matter.

Dean was not, and probably never would be, a _health nut_ like his brother. You only live once. Carpe the _hell_ out of the Diem. He usually chose to opt for the greasiest, calorie-loaded foods he could. He was young so it wasn't like he was sweating the cholesterol and he didn't climb to the top of the food chain to eat rabbit food, nothing that might've been in the ground once. His happy place was more bacon than was humanly advisable and eggs and hash browns cooked in bacon grease, smothered in ketchup and cheese. Dean was in fat kid's Heaven.

Sammy, on the other hand, preferred a bowl of high-n'-fiber cereal with a glass of orange juice. The more cardboard-y and tasteless they were, the better, usually leaving a bad after-tastelessness. It made Dean cringe, thinking that someone related to him actually ate like that.

Dean had almost forgotten the reason he actually _wanted_ to go to school, especially excited for once. He wanted to gloat a little, show off his sweet ride to everyone. Not many people could appreciate a vintage, all-American muscle car in this day and age, more apt to gravitate towards the new douchy foreign models sold to the filthy rich or spoiled teens.

Sam was extremely confused to see his big brother excited to go to school, giving him the side-eye. Dean took it that Sammy was feeling like he was going to steal his nerdy thunder, which was just not the case. Sammy could think what he wanted, but to Dean there was only room for one kid who liked school in every family, and it was not, in any way, shape, or form, Dean Winchester. He spent the majority of his high school career either in the cafeteria, or fooling around with girls in one of the fluffy, janitor's closets. Sam was almost embarrassed, his brother definitely had the reputation of being the school _man-whore_.

And he didn't disappoint.

It was a shock when Sammy found out that his dad had _given_ the Impala to Dean, like finding out you won the lottery and gave it all away to charity, rarity as that was. Sam began to question his father's sanity. John Winchester was of the mind that a man worked for a living, took pride in what he had, not expecting or giving handouts, earned his keep. One thing they both agreed upon.

Sam stood in the doorway to the garage, arms crossed tightly to ward off the biting chill of the morning, staring in disbelief as Dean checked the car over, donning his usual attire of steel-toed boots, jeans and a t-shirt under an open flannel. His face was steely and focused, as if expecting any new scuffs or scratches to suddenly crop up out of thin air, obsessively compulsive one might say.

Dad might have just created a monster.

"I can't believe he just gave it to you," Sam huffed as he descended the stairs onto the garage floor, school bag slung carelessly over his shoulder, his brother arduously rubbing circles in the paint, a fresh coat of wax Sam realized. Obsessive definitely. He wouldn't be surprised if his brother began to stare wantonly at the car, as if it was a beloved girlfriend, making moon-eyes at her. "You really are the good son," Sam declared with a mocking, huffing chuckle and then shivered. The morning was a freezer, a thin sheet of ice covering the ground outside, visible through the windows to the garage.

Dean shrugged as he tossed the rag he was holding into the open trunk before shutting it with a creaking bang. "Yeah just laugh it up chuckles. Being the favorite has its perks," he smiled, teeth pearly white and pointed like the _Cheshire Cat_. Sam kind of wanted to punch him in the face to wipe that smug look off. "He said it was an early graduation present. He also said I have to take care of her or it's my ass." Dean chortled, more to himself than to his bro. Sam had a slack-jawed look plastered on his features that Dean felt pretty smug about, grinning self-satisfied.

Sam quietly stared at the shine of the black paint for a moment longer and then snorted at the implications he heard from his father's words. Dean was nothing if not loyal to their father, always wanting to do what he deemed right, even if it was applying a fresh coat of wax to keep the shine. "Leave it to dad to give you a free gift, only it's not free. I wonder how he's going to top that with me when I graduate? Probably send me off to military school," Sam contemplated, his lips pursed and his eyebrows scrunched together, thinking of how he would probably never make it to his own graduation if they kept at it as they had. Sam joked about it, but Dean was obviously John's favorite son. Sometimes Sam wished he could be like Dean, listen to their father and not have an argument over nothing. But Sam was stubborn and he couldn't agree to disagree. The sun rose and shone from Dean's ass in their father's eyes.

Dean must have heard his thoughts when he spoke. "If you actually make it to graduation without you two killing each other that is," he sniped, opening the door to the car and plopping down on the driver's seat.

Sam snorted and smirked in agreement. Dean poked his head out of the window, tilting his head in a gesture to signal Sam to get in.

As Sam arranged all six feet of his frame in the passenger's seat, something Dean thought was a serious accomplishment, Dean talked on. "Well you've got three more years till he has to find something to get your ass out of the house, little brother," he deadpanned, playfully shoving his shoulder.

Sam huffed from the passenger's seat. "Ha-ha, very funny douchebag," Dean smiled in reply, the brotherly snark, the back and forth not enough to dampen his mood.

"So… you wanna drop by the Roadhouse and get a sweet tea and a chicken biscuit and roll into school late?" Sam grinned, his brother's light heart making him feel like he was in a daring mood.

Dean stared dumbfounded. His little brother was almost late-o-phobic, mortified of challenging the amount of time they could spend _not_ at school. That was, before his conscience kicked in and he decided to take the bus to school to keep his perfect attendance record.

Dean whistled playfully. "Wow… what a rebel. Next you're gonna ask if we can go get cigarettes or smoke pot in the boy's bathroom," Dean added sardonically, furrowing his brow.

Sam elbowed him in the side, realizing the truth of his brother's words. Dean knew him too well. He was reluctant to do anything that wasn't by the book. "Shuddup," he retorted.

Dean chuckled and pulled his shades over his eyes, looking too cool for school, grinning as he turned up the volume on the stereo, blasting the sounds of ACDC, y _ou shook me all night long_ , some of their dad's best classic rock collection, further cementing the certainty that Dean idolized their father. Sam smiled back and glanced out the window, at ease somehow in the light of his brother's mood as they pealed out of the driveway.

Driving in their town seemed to be all they _could_ do. Their small rural town was in the boonies, population three-thousand five-hundred-sixty. But it was just off the bay leading to the ocean. Those who had a love for waterfront property would be in seventh Heaven.

The Winchester house was on the outskirts of the town. They were more isolated and it was peaceful somewhat, the privacy giving them a reputation as a family of hermits. They weren't wrong. They didn't exactly go out of their way to be a part of the town, not in the social sense. Their business was their own and they liked to keep it that way.

Not that that was it. People still talked in their town, and everyone knew everyone's business. If they didn't, they merely speculated, starting rumors to quench their curiosity. There was absolutely nothing to do here and gossiping became its own category for combatting boredom. Most of the town was long, straight paved roads surrounded by arcs of pine trees. There were a lot of wild bushes and patchy paved roads surrounded by cornfields. Just a bunch of open fields and trees, bushes and cows along the road made up their rinky-dink town.

There was no garbage service. They had to drive ten miles to the sanitation center to drop off the trash, more aptly named _'the dump'_ , but it added a touch of class to such a small town.

There was one grocery store and one main street in the town, not even a movie theater or a bowling alley for teens to hang out at. The best they had for entertainment was to meet at the parks n' rec next to the high school, about a fifteen minute drive from their house. The only downside of hanging there was that the drugees frequented that area, so that was usually out. They could go _ghost hunting_ in the woods, but that was usually just an excuse to get drunk with the _good-ol-boys_. Dean went fishing with his dad, but it had been a while. He never went _mudding_ in beat-up pick-up-trucks, or _digging_ as they called it.

Yeah, they lived in the middle of nowhere, and if they didn't have a four-wheeler to drive down the muddy dirt back roads, then they didn't belong here.

What Dean desperately wanted to know, and asked all the time, was how the _hell_ tourists could even _find_ the place.

* * *

As Dean expected, everyone kept coming up to him throughout the day to ask if the new car was his. _New_ was a relative word. _Vintage_ was more apt. Pamela asked if the back seat had been broken in yet, and some girls he had stopped talking to after a few good nights.

 _Wow_ , he thought distractedly. _They are even using my car as an excuse to get in my pants_. Ruby, this blonde-haired fiery tamale had run her fingers over his chest and lowered her voice seductively, trying to convince him to make his brother take the bus home so she could have her way with him on the hood. He respectfully declined, but throughout the day he had a spring in his step.

 _Bros before hoes_.

The school day was a usual one, boring with a side of FML. English Lit gave him a migraine. Reading and listening to a bunch of dead guys whine and wax poetic about how times sucked was not his forte. When the bell rang for his next class Dean practically skipped out of there. Dean was good at math so Trig and Chemistry moved by at a decent pace. He enjoyed history also. Numbers and facts never lied, but he just wasn't into the tedious book work. He had a bad enough time trying not to fall asleep in _church_.

Senioritis was a _bitch_.

It was not until the end of the day when he had his auto tech and wood shop classes that his spirits lifted. He was not kidding when he said that he worked better with his hands. Good thing he was taking senior auto, it was a breeze for him, being adept in mechanics almost as long as he could walk. It was mostly an excuse to tinker away and lose himself in greasy engine and car parts. And now that he had the Impala, he could brag to the class that he and his dad had built her from the bottom up. It wasn't a lie. He had helped his dad with nearly every aspect of restoring her since he was little. He knew the class would come in handy someday.

His shop class was more out of curiosity than necessity. He got pleasure from working on cars, but he had no idea how soothing and stress free woodworking could be, focusing on nothing but the movement of his hands. It was like a hand in a glove, it fit perfectly. He could use this time to finish his mom's shelves and earn a decent grade at the same time.

Win, win.

Her birthday was not until next Friday, but he had never been the type to procrastinate or half ass a project when it actually meant something.

As the day came to an end, Dean sighed in relief as he walked through the double doors, feeling like a prisoner being let out on parole. He was greeted by a warm, sunny afternoon with clear blue skies. He inhaled a breath of fresh air and walked to the car, enjoying the sun's rays on his skin after being stuck inside like a vampire for seven-and-a-half long hours.

Dean sat on the hood bringing his shades down and closed his eyes, humming the chorus to Gordon Lightfoot's _Sundown_ and enjoyed the nice weather, believing that the time he did in that prison was well worth it to feel the freedom. He waited for Sam to arrive, texting a couple of the girls that propositioned him throughout the day. As tempting as it was to take them up on their numerous offers and leave Sammy's ass waiting, like a dick, Dean was surprisingly more content to have his brother next to him, the windows rolled down and enjoying the nice weather, the simplicity of driving without direction for at least a half hour.

When he peeled out of the school parking lot, he blasted some music from a classic rock station. With the windows rolled down and the wind blowing on his outstretched hand, Dean could not deny life was pretty damn good at the moment. Sam raised one eyebrow and stared at Dean as _AC/DC_ blasted through the speakers like the morning earlier. His brother just didn't know what good music was. But as Dean's dad said many times, " _Driver picks the music while shotgun shuts his cake-hole_."

Sam only glared half-heartedly as they drove off.

* * *

When they walked through the door close to half an hour later, Sam and Dean were both stopped dead in their tracks. Their mom was standing there dressed like she was going out on a hot date, with her black slimming dress and high heels. She looked at them both as they wolf-whistled at her. "You two go get cleaned up," she blushed as they both moved off to change. "Your father wants us to go out for pizza. We haven't been out to eat in a while."

Sam frowned as he eyed his mother's dress. "Don't you think you're a bit too dressed up for Sal's?" he asked sarcastically, one foot on the bottom step. And at once he yelped as a hand swatted his head. He turned around, glaring at Dean and rubbing his hair, messing it up.

"Just get ready Sasquatch," Dean growled, but his green eyes were mischievous.

Sam rolled his eyes and stomped up the stairs.

Dean chuckled and made his way up the stairs to change. Shaking her head, Mary changed back into a nice pair of jeans and a blouse, and they all waited for John to get off work.

* * *

As per their routine, they went out to eat one night every week for as long as Dean could recall. But with the way the economy was now, thanks to greedy politicians on Capitol Hill, everyone suffered. Money was tight. They had to put a leash on their spending and cut corners wherever they could. But they got by. It was probably more likely their mom wanted to just get out of the house after a long day at the office. Dean could understand. She probably needed a change and didn't want to clean dishes all night after cooking for a bunch of ravenous men. Dean would have helped her if they chose to stay in, but he understood nonetheless

It was getting late much quicker than a typical summer afternoon, the sky turned from a bright blue to deep shades of orange and magenta. It wasn't even five o'clock yet. The sun didn't start setting until around seven thirty usually. The storm clouds rolled in, thunder beginning to rumbled in the distance, and a cold wave descended over the town, fog rolling through the trees like a horror flick. Dean felt an eerie churning deep down in his gut as he saw the mist escaping his mouth with his breath. The hairs on the back of his neck and arms were raised like a cat ready to pounce, the very air feeling charged like static electricity. It felt like being watched, and not in a good way. It was chilly out, colder than it should be on a mid-October day. It didn't usually start cooling down for the winter until early December in Eastern-coastal Virginia.

It felt like an omen, one that demanded his attention. That was crazy, he thought shaking his head as they got out of the car. He brushed it off as just a small dose of paranoia, like it happened every other day. He wasn't psychic after all. It was simply a change in weather, maybe they were in the midst of a climate shift.

Wishful thinking.

Sal's Pizza joint they chose was on the Main Street of the town, wedged in between a dry cleaning/laundromat and their family's garage. Power lines reaching and stretching atop telephone poles, cars parallel parked along both sides of the road, a corner drugstore, and a public library on the left, all compacted together really said it all for the town.

Grace County was nothing special. Nothing ever happened here, like _Groundhog Day_ , everything was always more of the same.

As they walked up to the red, white, and green striped awning, Dean glanced over his shoulder, suddenly aware that something was off. An icy sensation wafted over him and cooled him inside and out, a full body shiver. Again he shook his head, brushing it off as he followed his family in.

While they perused the menu, not really needing to, they were regulars, the cold spots never seemed to leave Dean, only ebbed and flowed around him. Maybe he was coming down with something.

They ordered the usual, settling for an extra-large bacon and pineapple pizza, Dean's favorite. But he couldn't really enjoy the salty sweet tang of his meal with the cold draping over him like a shroud. Dean looked up at the ceiling, wondering if the owners were trying to save on heat. Dean felt a pit drop into his stomach as his mind raced somehow getting the eerie sensation that this was too much _Last Supper_ for his tastes, the once delicious food feeling like ashes in his mouth, like death incarnate.

Dean must have been the only one affected by the odd wave of wrongness, as everyone else at their table ate at a regular pace, oblivious to Dean's discomfort.

His mom cleared her throat, wiping her mouth with a napkin. "So how was school today, boys? Anything new?" she inquired, thanking the waitress as she walked back to the weigh station in the corner to refill their drinks.

Dean shrugged, appreciating the distraction for what it was, focusing on something else instead of the creeping cold, like the ebbing and flowing of the tides, rising and falling back, closer and closer with each moment, making him feel like he was going to be dragged in the undertow. "Just the usual... _bor-ing_. Tell me again why I can't just get my GED and work in the shop with dad?" Dean's face was dead serious.

His mom was not impressed in the least. Her eyes leveled him, unblinking.

Dean's dad gave him a weak, encouraging smile. He was old and wise enough to realize the wrath of a woman from her facial expressions, the deep-hearted, weary scowl on her face. He valued his life, and not having to sleep on the couch, so he kept his mouth shut. Though Dean could see that his father was more than ecstatic for his son to be working in the garage, from the gleam in his eyes, he could tell it was a conversation for another time, one that father and son should have alone. Following in his footsteps and maybe someday taking over the family business was all Dean had ever wanted since he first set foot in his father's garage.

It made Dean proud that he could please his father, even if he had no idea what he really wanted out of life.

His mother had other ideas though. "Because...," she paused exhaustedly, having had this argument too many times to feel otherwise. "No offense to the profession, but being a mechanic is either feast or famine. You either make a lot or little at all. And the fact that you only have a few short months of school left, you've lasted the last twelve years, what's a few more months? Won't you feel better going to college and getting a degree to know that you have something to fall back on?" she gently raved, the _well duh_ implied in her expression.

Dean nodded beseechingly, feeling like he was walking on egg shells at the moment. "Yeah but you know me. I don't do well with school. I'm not Sam. I'm not going to be a lawyer or a doctor. And I happen to be better with my hands instead of book-learning. It would be a waste of my time. Just give it a rest already Mom," he blurted out, not at all hiding his irritation, feeling cornered like a caged beast.

Dean knew all this. He had been thinking all the same things and of the possibilities for the last year or so. He was not a _total_ idiot. He would just rather do what made him happy, more like content and settle for the easiest way to get by, burying his head in the sand.

Happy was a far cry away, what with him not having many options and all.

And honestly, it was all rather depressing for him. They _expected_ something from Sammy, _he_ had plans of his _own_ , _he_ was going to _make_ _something_ of himself. Dean never saw himself going anywhere. That's why he settled for working with his dad. He wanted to be _reliable_. But when he actually took the time and contemplated what his future would be like, it looked bleak. He saw nothing.

So, yeah. _Settling_.

John's face turned stern, his father's chin lifting up defiantly in a show of respect for wife. "Don't take that tone with your mother young man," his dad scolded, holding up a finger, warning him with that finger more than his words that he was on thin ice.

Guilt instantly washed over Dean for losing his cool as he stared at his mother's sullen face, like she was disappointed that her own flesh and blood thought so little of himself, had such a low opinion of himself, that he was more content to live his life more for others instead of pursuing something worthwhile.

Heart in his throat and eyes hooded with shame, Dean nodded abashedly. "Sorry mom," he muttered low, ashamed of himself that he couldn't live up to her hype, that he was better than he could be.

She smiled sadly, as if on Dean's previous train of thought, what he could see as pity in her eyes. "It's alright, sweetheart. Just… promise me… don't give up on yourself," she whispered, and Dean's eyes snapped up worriedly, the cold settling in on him again, like a shroud of despair preying on the gloom of the moment.

Dean immediately turned his eyes down and faced the table, ashamed and nauseous at her ability to make him feel incompetent.

They all ate dinner in awkward silence after that, none of them able to think of anything to say to break the tension. Arguments with his parents were few and far between, and he hated drama, but when they occurred, the mood was always bad afterwards. He knew now how Sammy felt when he got into fights with their father on a regular basis. He would rather not have a repeat performance of it, becoming a constant thing between them. It was too depressing and the cold feeling he felt was reveling in it.

As they finished up their meal, the chilling air instantly returned with a vengeance. Dean was aware of the looming sense of being watched again. He was inquisitive enough to sense that someone was focusing their gaze on him, to the point of him actually stopping where he stood, turning around to see if the cold, sinister presence was breathing down his neck. He turned back around but there was no one but his family in the dining room.

As they all stood and followed John up to the counter, that creeping sensation never left him, sending his stomach into nauseating somersaults, his jittery muscles making the cold spread throughout his body, like a fire igniting from a match and spreading along a line of gasoline.

They made their way to the car and the wind picked up, the street lights all started to flicker and fail.

Dean turned towards his brother, a question in his eyes as their gazes met silently. "Maybe a power failure," Sam suggested as he shrugged his shoulders. Dean was certain, now more than ever, that he was the only one with the sense of wrongness, like something was there that wasn't supposed to be.

"Yeah….." Dean graveled out quietly, distracted, his words offhanded and not convinced, not able to get the eerie sense of dread out of his head, not able to rationalize it away as a freaky electrical shortage.

It was something out of a horror movie as they barreled down the highway. The sun was buried behind nearly black storm clouds, the sky turned a deep, dark muddy gray and lightning pulsed in the clouds as the wind blew viciously. The trees were swaying, almost falling over in the way of oncoming cars, and it sent Dean's nerves on edge, his knuckles white from where they clutched at his thighs.

Dean inhaled a shaky breath, feeling ice settle in his lungs. "Dad maybe we should pull off and take shelter somewhere before it gets too bad," he proposed very cautiously, as if something _other_ could hear him, the wrongness of the cold manifesting into something dangerous. His dad nodded and slammed on the gas pedal, his brow furrowed, _troubled_ , Dean might have noticed if he had bothered to look. But he was too in his own head, the panic so severe that it was triggering him something awful.

Dean still had the ominous feeling like something terrible was going to happen and it seemed the unexpected and odd weather patterns were only adding to his distress.

John was playing his part well. To every passenger in the car, he was totally calm, but in reality, he was the exact opposite. He did not have a good feeling about this. _Not_ the weather. Today was the day. They were coming for him, and he was _terrified_. Not for _himself_ , but for his family. He just needed to get home first. He didn't want them to be with him when it happened. They should not be near him when…

John couldn't bring himself to even finish the thought.

"We only have about ten minutes until we get to our street so-" but John was interrupted from his thoughts and words with a sudden jerking motion, a hand gripping his jacket from behind.

"DAD, LOOK OUT!" Dean screamed as a huge jagged bolt of white lightning struck a monstrous oak tree, bringing it down about a hundred feet in front of the car. John grunted and slammed his foot on the brakes, causing the tires to squeal loudly. They all instinctively grabbed the _oh-shit_ bars hanging just above their respective doors and held on for dear life They all held their breath, waiting for impact as they swerved and stopped about two feet shy from plowing into the monstrous tree lying in wait.

A collective breath was let out and they all fell back in their seats, relieved, adrenaline still pumping.

Mary blew out a breath and all but squeaked with a restrained chuckle. "Well…. that was close." They all nodded wordlessly.

Then it started.

An otherworldly noise like nothing the human ear could determine. The sound of thousands of bees, muffled by whistling and growling. Dean turned his neck around and his heart sank into his stomach and the cold came barreling back at him full force.

Masses and thick tendrils of black smoke, came barreling after them, monstrous tentacles snaking and billowing though the air like a vast storm cloud. Lightning crackled through it, striking the ground haphazardly and advancing towards them without pause, intent. The immediate glacial atmosphere he thought he had fell into since the restaurant, was now like jumping into a freezing lake, squeezing his chest in a vice. _I'm on a highway to Hell_ , began playing on the radio at random, bellowing out of the speakers. It was strange the details one remembered when the worst moments of your life happened.

The impact of the smoke clouds barreling into the car was immense, the smoke and the wind gust conjured up sending it rolling and tumbling down the road like a ragdoll, the passengers in held inertia, suspended in place as the car spun through the air. In a split second, Dean grabbed onto his brother's wrist in a death-grip. The buzzing whine grew deafening, only to be drowned out by another sound. A high-pitched screeching like an exceedingly earsplitting TV test channel droned until it reached a deafening tone and then there was this bright burst of white light, forcing Dean to shut his eyes, feeling all the blood in his body throb and pulse, like he was going to explode from the inside.

Then everything went dark.

* * *

When Dean came to, the sky was clear and starry, and everything was quiet, not even the chirping of birds or crickets. The air was warm and muggy, thick and cloying like a Virginian summer was supposed to be, no breeze or evidence that the wind had been blowing like a hurricane. Dean sat up blearily and took in his surroundings with as much patience as he could muster while confusion and shock pulsed through him like adrenaline. He was sitting, sprawled in the dirt and grass with his brother laying right next to him, unconscious, and his hand still wrapped around Sam's wrist.

From what he could see, they had ended up in an abandoned, cut-down cornfield. Dean looked down at himself and had to do a double-take. Neither of them had a scratch on them.

 _What the hell?_

Mary and John were nowhere to be seen. Dean realized belatedly that a fine tremble had built in his frame and his hands shook, the panic set in as he shook his brother awake frantically.

"Hey! HEY! ... Wake up dammit! We've got to find mom and dad," he growled breathily, his heart thumping so fast he could have a heart attack any minute. His left eye was twitching and his blood pressure was up, the adrenaline making him feel jumpy. He was not going to rest until he found them.

Sam blinked awake, startled at being jostled from unconsciousness. He took in his surroundings with a quick glance. "What? …. Where…where are we? Where are mom and dad?" Sam had a horrified expression on his face and his breathing was labored.

"I don't know okay." Dean snapped, jumping to his feet, not caring enough to brush himself off or look for any damage to himself or his brother. He extended a hand and pulled his brother to his feet, taking in the terrified look in his eyes. He immediately felt bad for snapping at his brother and lowered his voice. "Let's just find them then we can worry about small bullshit." Dean's emotions were running very high right at this moment and the adrenaline was making him feel light-headed, so he might have been acting a bit irrational. He just survived a car crash without a scratch, so he was entitled.

He just needed to find them and everything would all be alright. Dean took a deep breath to calm himself, pushing down his worry. He just had to be rational, take this step by step. Find his parents first. Before they...

Dean gritted his teeth and steeled his jaw, shutting those thoughts out. He had to focus, freaking out was not going to do either of them any favors.

The brothers walked with haste along the side of the road, for what could have been hours crammed into minutes, each moment feeling like an eternity. Barely five minutes passed before they found the aftermath of what they miraculously escaped. What they saw, they could never have been prepared for.

The black hunk of metal that used to be in pristine condition was crushed, twisted metal mangled beyond recognition, turned upside down and smoke protruding from the upturned underside. Glass was blown out all over the road. Unmistakable was the strong smell of gasoline permeating the air, wafting in with burned rubber and overheated blacktop.

Dean walked forward on autopilot, his legs heavy like lead. The closer he got he heard a muffled moaning coming from the inside.

They were trapped, still in the car, and there were sparks igniting off the front end, gasoline in a puddle on the road, dripping off the car in a stream.

Dean ran faster than he ever ran in his entire life towards the passenger side as he realized it was his mom begging for them. He hollered for Sam to call 911 as an afterthought as his eyes zeroed in on the car. As he ran around the overturned wreckage, feet sliding through the ditch, he caught a glimpse of a shape laying in the field out of the corner of his eye.

He inched his way closer towards the stalks, feeling his breath ratchet in his lungs, fearing the worst. What he saw made him jump back and clamp a hand over his mouth to muffle his own cry of horror, his eyes frozen wide in terror.

His father's mangled body was laid about twenty feet from the wreckage.

Each breath made him more panicked than before. He bent down and fell to his knees so fast it made him dizzy as he brought his hand gingerly to the body. His father's body was laying broken and crumpled over some dead stalks of corn, arms and legs covered in deep cuts and gashes. He was bleeding from the nose and the ears and his whole chest cavity was in ribbons, as if some wild animal had swiped an enormous paw and scraped out his insides, leaving a deep puddle of blood where a once strong chest had stood proud, something feral and evil didn't just want to kill him, but to ruin him and get to the surprise inside. Again it was strange, terrifying to remember every visceral detail of such a horrifying moment.

Dean's hands were shaking and he felt a deep wave of nausea overcome him as he put two digits on his father's wrist and two to his neck, Dean's eyes frozen on the spot, John's eyes frozen wide in horror, the last he saw inked into his dark irises. Dean knew before he even checked that his father was dead. He stared into those dark eyes. No life or light in them. Just empty dark spheres indicating the horror of his final moments. This was no longer his dad, only his body.

He was gone.

An overwhelming rush of despair fell over Dean like a ton of bricks falling off a skyscraper and his breath came quick and shallow his eyes filled with tears and the realization set in. He bit his lip, but it was not enough, so he brought his hand to his mouth to keep back the sobs threatening to turn into blood curdling, agonizing shrieks.

Remembering himself, pushing the horror of what he witnessed down, Dean leapt up and ran, stumbling in the dirt and grass, skidding deliriously on his knees to the passenger side door and peeked in to see his mom. She was not much better than his dad looked, a gash across her forehead leaking crimson, bruises all over, and blood trailing from her nose and ears, but at least she was still alive.

Dean's breath came in ragged panting. "Mom, dad's dead," he sobbed with relief knowing that at least his mother was still alive.

She did not answer. Her head lowered to her chest, crying and shaking in hushed gasps as Dean gripped her hand tightly, feeling her cold hand gripping tight enough to break the delicate bones in his own hand.

As quick as a cobra striking, Mary's head snapped up and faced Dean, "Son, you have to go. They will be back!" her eyes instantly filled with shock and fear. It did not match her frail tone, which did not sit right with Dean. Her eyes were staring out the window, past Dean's head. Dean's eyes filled again with tears and felt a wave of sorrow and grief ache in his chest. He didn't need to turn to know what she was staring at.

She had seen. She had been forced to watch as whatever savage animal had mauled him limb from limb.

Dean's eyes widened in horror at what he was hearing. "What...No, I'm not leaving you here! You're coming with us! What do you mean by, they? It was-" but he was abruptly cut short by the sound of a steady _buzz-crackle-pop_ coming from the overturned car.

Simultaneously, there was a spark from the car and his mom looked hard into his eyes with a pure loving gaze as her large green eyes crammed with tears as she forced his hand away.

"There's no time to explain! Just get your brother and run or you'll be killed too! RUN!" she screamed, crying desperately to him, tears streaming down her face, Dean feeling the sudden urge to vomit as the tears mixed with the blood and ran.

Dean could not move. He felt his limbs give away as his mother basically told him to ' _run and save yourself_.' It was one of his worst nightmares come to life, paralyzing him in fear. He was so lost in what he was hearing, the terror of the moment that he didn't notice the arms wrapping around him from behind, roughly hoisting him to his feet, literally dragging him kicking and screaming, as he wailed and bawled at the top of his lungs.

"NO! Let me go, you son of a bitch!" he screamed hoarsely, whimpering and sobbing, not caring that the arms were pulling him from the fire, not wanting to leave his mom alone.

It all happened like in slow motion. The eerie quiet whisper of ' _I love you'_ was there in their minds, not said but felt in this final moment, a gut punch of adrenaline and awareness that this was it. Dean's heart felt like it was being ripped out, beating so hard it was trying to leave his chest, magnified tenfold above the now roaring flames and his own breathless, voiceless cries of anguish.

Everything stood still and silent as if time had stopped for an instant. Then, the darkness exploded into light as a spark ignited an enormous fireball, engulfing the car and licking up the sides climbing sky high, sending a shockwave at the brothers, knocking them off their feet.

In the ten seconds which seemed like an eternity that he processed what had happened, Dean leapt up, sprinting to the burnt remains of the car, feeling his lungs burn from the inability to breathe, for his cries robbed him of breath.

"NO! MOM!" he wailed at the top of his lungs until his voice became hoarse. His brother grabbed him from behind mid-leap and wrapped his arms around his chest, hauling him back with a grunt, swinging him down and throwing him to the ground, covering him with his body as another pulse of fire billowed out towards them.

Dean instinctively rolled up with the adrenaline and with all his strength threw his arms out dislodging the tight hold his brother had on him and turned around on the spot, not even sparing a second to punch him square in the jaw.

Sam doubled back, knocked off balance, staring in shock, Dean too wrapped up in his own shock and despair to notice the tear-tracks and the swollen, blotchy face staring him down. "WHY DIDN'T YOU LET ME SAVE HER! I COULD HAVE SAVED HER GODDAMMIT!" Dean roared, his words cut short from the blow, knocked off balance from a hard punch to his face in retaliation.

"YOU WOULD HAVE DIED TOO YOU FUCKIN IDIOT! WHAT COULD YOU HAVE DONE?" Sam screeched, towering over his brother like a giant, Dean staring wide and tear-filled eyes up at him. Sam felt so angry in that moment he entertained throwing another punch, trying to knock some sense into his older brother. Sam's jaw clenched and he realized belatedly that his fists were balled up, ready to strike. He sighed heavily as his eyes closed, taking a few deep calming breaths. Tears started streaming down Sam's face. He came close to losing his whole family all in one night. He and Dean were the only ones left now, and his stubborn idiot older brother had been all too willing to go and nearly join them, to throw himself in the fire. Sam was sure of it, he had seen it in Dean's eyes.

Dean let the words hit him like a sledgehammer to the chest and he felt all the air leave his lungs. "I don't know… Maybe….Just… What are we gonna do?" Dean howled out in agony, the pain in his chest, tears pouring, daring to never let up. He just lost his parents. And he had been willing to jump in like he was suicidal. But he didn't care. There had been no thinking, only action. And somewhere deep down, he knew. He was never meant to save them. Nothing he would have tried would have worked. It felt almost predetermined, the cold having climbed inside and given him the warning he needed, a warning he hadn't even thought to pay attention to.

All Dean had left was his brother. All they had now was each other. Dean steeled himself, getting his tears and trembling under control. He had been selfish. He had almost left his brother alone. Standing on unsteady feet, Dean walked on weak knees to Sam. They gravitated towards each other like magnets and gripped each other tight in a crushing embrace. Dean didn't dare let go for fear of being ripped away from Sammy, the pain of losing one another too close for comfort, the wounds still too raw.

Dean was broken, like a huge part of his soul was ripped out and now there was an all-consuming black hole in its place, sucking all the life away, leaving cold in its place.

He was in _Hell_.

Hell wasn't a place to him now, but a state of mind. Some said that you went there when you died. But they were wrong. Hell was watching the ones you love die, and then having to live through it, to go on without them.

Dean felt a deep, rattling shudder go through his brother's frame, feeling it in his own body as his brother convulsed. His sobs shook his whole body and Dean only clung to him tighter, feeling a wetness coating the collar of his shirt, not caring for one minute. "I don't know…. I… I d-don't know what I w-would have d-done if I had lost you too Dean. I don't want to be left alone," Sam whimpered into his brother's shoulder. Dean squeezed his brother tighter around his back and rested his cheek against his brother's neck.

"I'm not going anywhere little brother," he whispered gravelly, his voice feeling as raw as the pain in his heart. "It's just you and me now. I'll protect you," his grief stricken face became hard and determined, drawing strength from his little brother, to what he must do now, as he promised not only to himself or his brother, but his parents as well. His whole life had just changed in the course of minutes. He now had to be his brother's sole guardian. He had to _be_ there. He had to be strong for him. He wasn't going to leave his brother out here all alone.

The brothers began to silently cry and shake uncontrollably, still wrapped around each other desperately as they let this all sink in. Dean would never get to show his mother the shelves he had slaved over for months, never get to see the wonder in her eyes. He would never get to have breakfast with them again, see them when they came home, because they never would again. Dean would never get the chance to say ' _I love you'_ again, and that hurt more than Dean could have ever imagined. There would be no more family dinners or movie nights, and no more of his mother's sage advice. There would be no more of his father's praise.

There was nothing left. They were well and truly alone now.

A huge part of Dean had died that night, and he was not sure he could ever pick up the pieces. Inside, he was already dead. But he had to take care of his brother now. He was the only family he had left and his parents were gone, to a place he couldn't follow.

You never knew how much time you had left, and Dean should have known then, that day in the garage. His father did. He had _known_ this was coming, Dean was sure of it now, that he _knew_ that he was marked for dead.

But it didn't matter anymore. Dean had lost two of the people who mattered most to him, in the span of _minutes_. It hurt to know that he never had the chance to say goodbye, but it didn't seem right, to say it.

* * *

 _One week later_ …

Nothing said comfort for the bereaved like endless casseroles and empty condolences. Sammy was a wreck at the cemetery. Watching their caskets being lowered into the ground under an old oak tree, he had shaken uncontrollably as tears cascaded down his face. Dean was next to him silently, simply standing there like marble, holding the tears in his eyes, not letting them fall, his arm around Sammy's shoulders, a steady presence there through the whole ordeal. Dean knew he needed to cry, but his grief was too painful to let loose. He had to be strong for them both. If he started to cry, he might never stop.

There were quite a few people at the funeral and the wake. There were people from school to show their support, Jo and Charlie, and friends of the family, namely Bobby and Ellen. But to the brothers, it was like they were the only two there, visible, the only ones who knew how to feel, both having been there, for the most part. Neither of them had _seen_ what had happened, those few moments between the car tumbling down the highway and the minute Dean found his father's mangled body, or what was left of it.

Sam had insisted, incessantly, that they go out and use some of the left over burial funds to buy them both a nice suit. He even tried to lighten the mood and say that their parents would never forgive them if they looked bad at their funeral.

Dean had only nodded mutely. Forgive him if he failed to see the humor.

After the funeral, they stayed back to have some alone time with their parents' graves. Dean wanted to say something to them, but he couldn't get the words out, they were there, but they were caught in his throat, strangling the air from his lungs, and he felt kind of stupid talking to a gravestone. They weren't there. He simply stood there, like one of the angel marble statues, watching over his brother as he gathered the courage to speak.

Sammy told their dad that he was sorry, for the fights and that he loved them both, and that he missed them. He could not say more as he began choking on his gasps for air as he mourned them. Dean's heart ached for his little brother. But still, he did not shed a tear.

It was shameful to him. It was _his_ fault. He should have done something. He had felt it that night. He didn't know at the time what, but he knew it was going to happen. His tears were an unwarranted blemish on his parents' memory. He had no right to mourn them if it was on him.

And it was. Whatever had caused the accident… he had _felt_ it. He should have warned them.

The house was filled with the savory smell of baked goods and meaty casseroles, comfort food that would usually have Dean first in line, pushing people out of the way to get the biggest helping. But he wasn't hungry. He wouldn't have the motivation to do much of anything for a long time.

What he _did_ know was that he needed a drink. He trudged on sluggish legs to the kitchen and raided his parents' liquor cabinet, now his, he thought somberly. He was about two heaping gulps of whiskey down, not bothering to find a glass, he had no one to impress, when Sammy stomped in the kitchen with murder in his eyes.

"What are you doing?!" Sam hissed viciously.

Dean snorted morosely. "What does it look like I'm doing? A little liquid courage never hurt anyone," he argued with a downbeat sneer, not even caring that he was drowning himself in alcohol. "And besides, it's five o'clock somewhere."

Sam nodded slowly, eyes shining with disappointment. "Think they would want you to do this?" his voice was unsteady from crying and too wary as opposed to his usual fiery disposition.

Dean snorted again, bitter at the reminder of something that didn't need reminding. It was all too fresh for him and it was making him angry. "Well they're dead, so it doesn't really matter what they want now does it?!" he snapped, for a second loving the hurt he could see in his brother's eyes and then hating himself for causing it.

Dean set the bottle down and rolled his eyes in annoyance, and then faced his brother head on. Sam frowned at him, somehow seeing a problem in the future in the form of a half-drunk bottle of liquor sitting on the counter, the indulgent smile on his brother's face not quite reaching his eyes.

The brothers both sighed heavily and turned bloodshot eyes to each other. Neither of them have had a decent night's sleep since that night.

It was too quiet and Dean hated the shakiness he could hear when his brother took a breath. "What are we gonna do?" Sam asked in a scared whisper.

Dean frowned, his expression remaining, stone-like. Dean was simply too tired to even try to understand what was happening, what his brother was trying to say.

Their parents had been prepared, and thank _God_ for that, and he really needed to find a new phrase for that. One headache spared, Dean was at least grateful for their practicality. Should something happen, _Heaven forbid,_ their sons would not have to worry about anything. No burial costs, no taxes or credit problems, or even a mortgage to worry about. Their life insurance policies ensured that their sons wouldn't have to change their daily lives until at least the end of Dean's four years of college, which he was still debating on. After the _'accident'_ , Dean had done some thinking and realized he might give it a try, if only to honor his mother's memory, no self-interest in the matter.

That was the _meaning_ Dean thought Sam meant after a moment of his dazed confusion. It was easier for him to think practically than emotionally. He was such a useless bastard, thinking of that instead of their passing. He just stood there like a statue until his brother would continue.

"About the house and their possessions," Sam clarified somewhat stiltedly, knowing that his brother's emotions were a tripwire connected to a loaded shotgun, even the smallest movement ready to set it off.

Dean sighed resignedly, hating that they even had to have this conversation. He just wanted to crawl into bed and sleep until he died, not able to think, to pretend that none of this ever happened, to lose himself in a dream, to let it become his life, and to fall through some kind of dream mirror only to wake up again and find that all _this_ had been the dream, not the other way around. "I don't know. Burn it? Sell it? I can't… I don't want anything that is gonna remind me of… I am just so tired," Dean closed his eyes and heaved a beaten sigh.

Sam blew out a relieved breath, visibly deflating the tension of the moment. "Yeah... But what about after school?" Dean had to snort and his sore bloodshot eyes grew fond at the mention of something that gave his brother such purpose. It was wistful on his part. He only wished he could find a purpose of his own. But then his eyes widened as he stared at his little brother, an epiphany.

He was his purpose, and he wasn't going to let his brother down. "I don't know... baby steps. We'll figure it out," Dean smiled slowly, a subtle wink, to show his brother that he was still not going anywhere. That he would always be there.

Sam could hear the subtext there and it made him smile. "I hope so."

Dean nodded, eyes serious as they just stood there, not really believing it. He hoped so too, but hope didn't get you jack. But maybe that was the cynical side of him.

Only time would tell.

Dean felt cold, the cold sinister presence from that night somehow stuck in his heart, as if it had been given permission to take up residence there. He couldn't get warm.

It felt like death, like the swarming blackness was in him now, calling him to the other side, like it held a claim over him.

He couldn't begin to even care, for the emptiness was all he had when he thought of them. He had his brother, he knew, and he would survive for him, but he was just so tired and afraid. Afraid of what was next.

* * *

 **There you have it. Sorry it took so long. Please review. I know it's a little heavy near the end and it's quite long, but believe me, this will be worth it. We all know Dean is a complicated, self-hating guilty type. But things are gonna look up soon. CAS TO THE RESCUE! :)**


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